Bonds of Blood
by charlock221
Summary: When an old army friend of John's comes to visit, a new case immediately sets tensions running high between everybody, causing loyalties to be tested and limits to be pushed. And as if that wasn't enough, a familiar face is lurking in the shadows, choosing the right moment to pounce.
1. Chapter 1

_Where are you? – SH_

_ I told you where I was going ten minutes ago. Not my fault you weren't listening – JW_

_ I was listening – SH _

_ Then where am I? – JW _

Five minutes later, then...

_ Irrelevant. Need you back at the flat at once – SH _

John sighed and glanced out the window of Speedy's cafe, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced back at his phone and sent a reply.

_ Can't. Like I said earlier, I'm meeting someone – JW _

The retort came thirty seconds later.

_ Meet them another time. I need you here now – SH _

_ Tough, Sherlock. I'm turning my phone off now – JW _

John tucked his phone back into his pocket with a quiet chuckle, knowing that he was likely to spend the rest of the day with a sulking detective. Perhaps he'd avoid the flat for the next few hours, then.

"John?"

The doctor glanced up at the man stood before him, dressed in army uniform with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a wide grin crossed his features. The man returned the smile within seconds and pulled John out of his seat.

"Nick!" he exclaimed, grinning as his old friend pulled him into a fierce hug. John returned it sincerely and laughed as he was squeezed tightly. After a few moments he drew back and studied the man he hadn't seen for four and a half years. His dark brown hair was still cropped into a military haircut, and his piercing blue eyes were as sharp and bright as ever. He was nearly Sherlock's height, though slightly shorter, but still tall enough that when John looked directly ahead of him he was met with Nick's chin, covered in stubble.

"God, it's been ages." John murmured, sitting back in his chair as Nick sat opposite him. "How've you been?"

"Great, great." Nick smiled. "Well, it's annoying to be back here if I'm honest."

"It's too bad." John said truthfully. He could remember how dedicated Nick was to the army and to his fellow comrades. Nick always used to hate being sent home; he was too much of an adrenaline junkie. "Where are you staying now?"

"Oh, in a block of army flats in Putney. I'm there for two weeks." Nick answered. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it and rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

"What is it?" John prompted.

Nick regarded John for a few moments, then sighed. "Actually, I was wondering if I could crash at your place for a few days." he muttered, eyes downcast and his cheeks reddening. "It's just that since last week the flat is being renovated, so everyone's had to leave, and I haven't really got anywhere else to go."

John pursed his lips. "We don't have a spare bedroom or anything..."

"Oh, I'll happily kip on the couch, and like I said I'll be gone within the week. It's only temporary."

John sighed. "...I don't know, Nick. My – uh – flatmate isn't really a people person, and he can be a bit rude."

Nick shook his head. "I'll stay of his way, I promise. And he can't be any worse than what we went through in the army, right?"

John nodded absently, remembering days when the horrors of the war had got to some soldiers, and they'd let loose on everyone, shouting abuse and picking fights. He grimaced, then looked up at Nick.

"Of course you can stay, Nick." he said softly. "How could I say no to the man who saved my life?" he grinned.

Nick beamed as relief coursed through him. "Cheers, John. You won't regret this."

John smiled slightly. "It's alright. Did you want to meet him now, then?" he asked.

"Sure, what are we waiting for?" Nick bounced up from his chair and scooped up his duffel bag. John smiled again at his enthusiasm and followed him out the door and onto the street.

"So, where are you living at the moment?" Nick asked.

"Uh, right here, actually." John walked a few metres down the pavement and stopped outside 221B.

"Nice." the soldier commented, looking up at the building.

"Yeah, it is. C'mon in." John opened the door and led his friend up the stairs and to his flat. Once Nick had caught up, John opened the door and stepped aside so that the taller man could see his home. Nick put his bag in the corner and walked further into the room, looking about the living room and the kitchen.

"Cosy." Nick said. John smiled.

"John? I told you to be back here ten minutes ago. What took you so long?"

Sherlock Holmes strolled into the living room from the kitchen dressed in his crimson dressing gown and wearing a pair of goggles. He paused in his steps, though, when his icy eyes met Nick's warm ones.

"You're John's army friend." he stated.

"What gave me away?" Nick grinned, holding his arms out. "It wouldn't have been the uniform, perhaps?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He turned to John. "Why is he here?"

John shifted. "He needs a place to stay for a few days, and I've let him stay here. He won't get in your way, don't worry."

Sherlock glared at the army doctor before turning to go back in the kitchen.

"Wait, I haven't introduced myself yet." Nick leapt forward and grasped Sherlock's arm. The consulting detective shook out of his grip and looked at the soldier expectantly.

"Nicholas Harper, at your service." the soldier mock-bowed.

Sherlock watched him with a disinterested gaze. "Sherlock Holmes." he stated, moving towards the kitchen again.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Nick frowned, quickly looking across at John. "You told me he was dead." he said. John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock beat him to it, speaking whilst leaning over his microscope.

"Well, it would appear that I am, in fact, alive." he said, and John knew immediately Sherlock was rolling his eyes.

"Yes, something for which we are all eternally grateful." The doctor said with an indulgent smile. "Tea?" he asked Nick.

"Please." he answered distractedly, moving over to sit on the sofa. John walked into the kitchen and started preparing two cups when he felt Sherlock behind him.

"What is he doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

"I told you – he's here for a few days, just until his flat is finished being renovated." John answered, turning to look at his flatmate. "He's never been much hassle, and he probably won't even be in the flat all that often. I'm sure he's got people he wants to see and all that, so just behave."

Sherlock scowled at him before stalking back to his chair and sitting down, focusing on his microscope again.

"Here you go," John said, handing Nick his tea and then sinking down onto his chair at the desk.

"Cheers." Nick replied, taking a sip. "So," he began, "Have you been able to see Rachel recently?" he asked John with something akin to hope in his eyes.

John shook his head. "Not for at least two years, sorry. Ellen refuses to let me see her."

"Bitch." Nick mumbled into his tea, as if knowing this was the answer he was going to get. "Who does she think she is?" he asked absent-mindedly, his eyes resting on the skull on the mantel piece.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "Rachel is your daughter." he said confidently.

Nick looked up at him. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew that, but yes, Rachel is my daughter. And John's goddaughter."

"I didn't know you had a goddaughter." Sherlock said with a frown, looking across at John.

The doctor shrugged. "And now you do. She's, what, six now?"

Nick nodded. "Her birthday was last month. I can't believe Ellen doesn't let you see her. What does she say to you?" he asked.

"Ellen is your ex-wife–" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, yes, she is." Nick cut off, brushing Sherlock away impatiently. The detective visibly bristled and crossed his arms. "Well?" He watched John expectantly.

"Uh, well usually when I go and visit her, she'll open the front door a few inches and tell me she's busy, or Rachel's with her grandparents. She doesn't let me in or anything; just gives her excuse and shuts the door in my face."

"Lovely." Nick said, draining his cup. "I'd better... er... go see them, actually. Be back in a few hours?"

"Sure, see you then." The soldier got up from the sofa and placed his cup on the table before walking out the door. The front door sounded a few minutes later.

"I don't like him." Sherlock announced.

John smiled, despite himself. "And why would that be?"

"Because he interrupted me."

"You interrupted him first." John countered, getting up from his chair and bringing the two empty cups with him to put them in the sink. Sherlock followed him and glared down at John.

The doctor sighed. "And the other reasons you don't like him?" he asked resignedly.

"He's hiding something."

John rolled his eyes. "Aren't we all?" he retorted.

Sherlock blinked. "You're not, are you?" he asked.

"Am I?"

"Stop answering my questions with questions!"

John chuckled as he filled the sink with water and began to wash up the dishes. "Sorry, it's funny winding you up, though."

"You're not _winding me up_, John. That's a stupid thing to say."

"It's just an expression. I wasn't implying that I was physically causing you to... never mind. Look, if you can just _try _to get along with Nick then the days will fly by much quicker and he'll be gone before you know it."

"I still don't understand why he's here in the first place." Sherlock grumbled.

"What _is _there to understand?" John asked. "He was looking for a place to live temporarily and I offered it to him."

"_Why_, though?"

"Why what? What's so difficult to comprehend? He was my best friend when I was in the army, and we looked out for each other. Hell, he saved my life when that bullet struck my shoulder. So when he comes asking for a place to stay, who am I to say no? At the moment you're being childish, and I'm not going to make him leave just because he interrupted you when he was trying to find out why I haven't seen his daughter who _he_ hasn't seen for God knows how long. Give the guy a break, for crying out loud." He huffed as he scrubbed at yet another one of Sherlock's dirty experiments, which seemed to be permanently waiting to be washed up.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to wash these once in a while." John added quietly, putting a beaker on the draining board.

"Why don't you ask your _best friend_ to do it?" Sherlock uttered, walking away.

"Oh, you're jealous now?" John turned and leant against the sink, watching Sherlock pause and stiffen.

"No, I am not _jealous_." Sherlock seethed, spinning on his heel to glare at the army doctor.

"Then stop acting like it." John said firmly, throwing aside the dishcloth. "I am sick of you keeping me at your beck and call and then throwing a tantrum whenever one of my friends distracts me from you. It is immature and extremely rude, and I am not going to tolerate it, especially when it's aimed at a man who's just come home from Afghanistan to practically nothing. I was in his shoes once, I know how he feels, and I know that you, being cold and icy to him, are the last thing he needs."

"I do not throw _tantrums_, and I most certainly don't care what you do when you're off playing with your other friends. I don't require you to constantly look after me; I can do it perfectly well on my own. Like I said once before, _alone protects me_." The second he said that, Sherlock knew he had gone too far.

John's jaw tightened and he looked at the detective coldly, moving to the door. "That was low, Sherlock. Even for you." he murmured, walking out.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was laying flat out on the sofa when he heard footsteps echo up the stairs. He sighed, knowing immediately who they belonged to, and he rolled over so that his back was facing the room.

The footsteps entered, and Sherlock listened as they paused to take in his prone form, before they moved over to his chair, and there was a squeak as someone sat down.

"You know, I am adamant that there will be a day where I'll arrive and you'll welcome me with a cup of tea, rather than the back of your head."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes despite knowing full well that his brother couldn't see the action.

"Where's John?"

Sherlock sighed, "I'm sure you know full well where he is, brother dear." he said.

"Mmm, and I see he's gained a friend." Mycroft said aloofly.

The detective frowned. "What of it?" he grumbled.

"Nicholas Harper." Mycroft murmured. Sherlock could hear papers rustling and he knew Mycroft had a file resting on his lap. Curiosity getting the better of him, the younger Holmes turned slightly and watched as his brother flicked through each page, pretending to be interested.

"A loyal, trustworthy soldier, it says here." Mycroft said, knowing Sherlock was watching without needing to look up. "Looks out for his comrades and always puts them ahead of him. He's saved countless soldiers without any thought for himself. A born leader. Hmm. Remind you of anyone we know?"

"Stop playing games, Mycroft."

"He saved John's life, did you know?"

"Yes I did know."

"It was when John had been shot in the shoulder having tried to save another soldier. Mr. Harper could only get to him once the gunfire had died down, and when he finally reached him, the doctor was only barely conscious."

Sherlock shifted, feeling uncomfortable having to listen to how John had come so close to death.

"Apparently no one knew where the bullet had come from, and the shooter was never found. Interesting, don't you think?"

"Not really, no. Mycroft, what do you want?" Sherlock snapped, his patience wearing thin.

The elder Holmes snapped the file shut and looked across at his brother. "Why don't you trust him?" he asked bluntly.

The detective sighed and rolled back to face the sofa. "Why's it any of your business?" he muttered.

Mycroft sighed. "It's not, but I feel that you haven't yet got any reason not to trust him. This here says gambling was a big issue for him during Afghanistan."

Sherlock turned again. "You don't trust him either?" he asked.

"It's none of your business." Mycroft smiled, getting up from Sherlock's chair and deliberately setting the file on the desk, his hand resting against the brown paper. "And what you do in your own time is _your_ business, and I do so hate to waste your time, so I shall be going now."

Before he had a chance to get across the room, the door to the flat suddenly burst open and Nick stumbled in. He opened his mouth to speak to Sherlock, but stopped abruptly when his eyes fell upon Mycroft.

"Oh – sorry." he said. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "No apologies are necessary, I assure you. You are?" he prompted, feigning confusion.

"Uh – Nicholas Harper." Nick held out his hand, and Mycroft took it.

"Mycroft Holmes." he said, almost coldly. "I see you've already met my brother, Sherlock."

Nick looked from one to the other a few times before answering. "Yeah, John introduced us. I'm staying here for the week."

"So I understand." Mycroft replied, moving towards the door. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock." he called before strolling down the stairs and outside.

Sherlock looked over to Nick, who was twisting his hands in front of him and staring off into the distance.

"Nicholas?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. Nick snapped out of his reverie and glanced at Sherlock, before a brief smile crossed his features.

"Nick, please." he said, before turning sombre. "Actually, I came back here for a reason."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his gaze scanning over the soldier's body. "You've found a dead body." he stated.

Nick frowned at him, confused. "Y-yes, I have. Sorry, how did you know?"

"As John has probably told you, I am a consulting detective. It's my job to notice the little things."

"Right. Yes. Oh, God. Ok, did – did you want to go and have a look?" Nick asked, watching as Sherlock got up from the sofa.

"Of course I do. Give me a minute." He quickly paced back into his bedroom and threw his dressing gown on the bed, before coming back and reaching for his coat. Nick was stood by the door, waiting for him and looking less nervous than he did a few moments ago.

"Is John not coming?" he asked.

"He's gone out." Sherlock answered automatically. "I'll fill him in on the details when we get back. Where is the body?"

"It's at my block of flats. In the basement."

"What were you doing down there?" Sherlock asked as the two made their way downstairs and out onto the pavement, waiting for a taxi.

"Every time I come home, I stay at the same block of flats. The stuff that I can't take with me back to Afghanistan stays in the basement. I was down their retrieving the boxes."

"I thought you were visiting your daughter?"

"Well, yes, but when I got there no one was in. I decided to quickly stop off at the flat, and well, you know what happened then."

"So it would seem." Sherlock murmured as a cab pulled up alongside them.

* * *

It was past six in the evening when Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He and Nick had spent the day studying the body – a fifty-seven year old man, divorced, ex-military, shot through the head – and then Sherlock had visited DI Lestrade with the soldier tagging along. He managed to squeeze more information from Lestrade, whose team had been there when they arrived. Now, Nick had gone back to see his ex-wife and hopefully daughter, leaving Sherlock to face the stairs alone.

When he pushed open the door to the flat, he was immediately assaulted with the smell of chicken. Sherlock grimaced in anticipation; whenever John was frustrated, he cooked.

He walked further into the living room – shedding his coat in the process – and watched John concentrate on handling a number of frying pans simultaneously, making sure the contents in each one was thoroughly cooked. It would seem they were having stir-fry tonight.

The doctor glanced up at him briefly, then focused his attention back on his cooking. "Alright?" he asked curtly.

"Fine." Sherlock replied, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Where's Nick?"

"Out looking for his daughter."

John smirked. "You make it sound as though she's lost."

Sherlock shrugged. "She could be, for all we know."

John frowned. "Don't say things like that, Sherlock." he muttered.

"Why not?"

The doctor sighed. "Because you'll worry people for no reason."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't answer.

"Mycroft came by." John said suddenly, stirring a wooden spoon into a saucepan.

"Did he? He already visited once today." Sherlock hummed.

"I know; he told me." John answered.

"What did he want?"

"To talk to me about Nick." At this, John stopped stirring and turned to Sherlock, wooden spoon in hand. "What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything." Sherlock replied.

"Well either way, he seemed to know a great deal about Nick." John's eyes narrowed, waiting for Sherlock to answer.

"Mycroft brought a file with him, so I would imagine _that _is where he got his information." the detective answered sardonically.

"And _why_ did he decide to bring along a case file in the first place?"

"I don't know, why don't you ask him?" Sherlock retorted defensively.

"I did. He told me to ask you. So?" John crossed his arms.

"I didn't _ask _for Nick's case file, if that's what you're implying. Mycroft felt the need to waft it in my face, and it wasn't my fault if he told me some things about your friend."

"And those things were?" John prompted, and Sherlock could tell he was running out of patience. Going by the tight lines on his face and tired eyes, John had been stressing all day. Over what, exactly, Sherlock wasn't sure.

He sighed. "He told me that Nick was a loyal soldier and very trustworthy." he said quietly.

The tension visibly drained out of John, and he uncrossed his arms and faced the saucepans, stirring them again, though this time in a more relaxed manner.

"I'm sorry for snapping earlier." John sighed, separating the stir-fry onto two plates and bringing them to the table. He sat down and watched as Sherlock tucked into the food.

"It's fine." the detective said.

"No, it's not." John answered. "I know that Nick living here for a while is going to be hard for you, so it wasn't fair for me to use that against you." He picked at his food as he spoke. "Nick surprised me by asking to stay, and I think that eventually built up into frustration, which I took out on you."

"John." Sherlock said firmly, a forkful of food hovering near his mouth. "I said it's fine. Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have said what I said, either. It was... not good."

"Bit not good, yeah."

"_A lot_ not good." Sherlock said quickly.

John nodded, appreciating that this was Sherlock's way of apologising, and he began to eat properly rather than pushing the food around his plate. "Do you know what Mycroft did with the file?" he asked after a while.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up, eyebrows raised.

"Well at the time he mentioned it, he made it sound as though you have it. Do you?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's on the desk." He gestured to the living room with his fork.

John frowned. "No it's not." he said definitively.

"Are you sure?"

John nodded. "Positive. I've been there for two hours at least, writing on my blog. I would've noticed a big brown file sitting beside me."

"And you're certain Mycroft didn't manage to sneak it back with him?"

"It's possible, but why would he take it with him if he gave it to you in the first place?"

Sherlock shrugged, eating another forkful of his stir-fry. "This is good." he said, motioning to the food.

John raised his eyebrows. "I'm surprised you're eating it." he smiled. "You're never usually this hungry."

Sherlock smirked. "I need to recharge." he said. "I've got another case."

John smiled again, raising his glass of water to his lips. "Oh? Who died?"

"Major Geoffrey Williams."

John choked on his water and abruptly started coughing. Sherlock frowned as he watched him, making no move to help.

"You know him?"

John's coughing subsided eventually, and he looked at Sherlock with watery eyes. "Knew." he corrected in a croaky voice. He cleared his throat. "He was leader of our unit when I was in Afghanistan." he said.

"Interesting." Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "That wasn't why I was so surprised. The thing is... he died six years ago."

Sherlock frowned. "Time of death was at least three hours." he said.

"Well, I wasn't suggesting that someone had just dug up his body and dumped him there."

"How did he die in Afghanistan?"

"Suicide." John replied grimly, looking down at his food. "Slit his left wrist."

"That _is _interesting." the detective leaned forward towards John. "Did you ever find out why?"

John shook his head. "No; some just passed it off as stress, but to me he didn't seem like that kind of man. He'd been in service for at least seventeen years, so why do it then? Others had this viewpoint, and there was a three month-long investigation into his death, with every soldier under scrutiny."

"Including you?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity peaked.

"Including me." John smiled. "And they weren't exactly polite."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter." the doctor said. "What's done is done, and they obviously got an answer, though we were never told."

"Nick was interrogated too?"

"Yes, of course he was. We all were, like I said."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, thinking. "What was Major Williams like?"

John thought for a moment. "He was a good man. Very well respected. Firm but fair, you know? But he seemed to have a darker side that no one really saw."

"Apart from you?"

"Apart from me." John repeated. "He had a habit of going into the local village and getting absolutely pissed. Only a few people knew he did this, and those people were sent to go get him and bring him back without anyone noticing. I was sent to get him once.

"To be honest, I was furious. I had other, more important things to do than go out and cart a drunken man back to base. But I went all the same. I found the bar he went to, and he was sat talking to this man and downing a jug of beer at the same time."

John sighed, and got up from the table, collecting the two plates and placing them in the sink.

"When I got closer, I was able to overhear the conversation he was having with this guy. He was telling him everything. Everything about our unit, and that included plans, tactics, shifts, _names_." John counted off his fingers as he spoke, having abandoned the washing up. "I intercepted him before he could say anymore – as if there _was _anything left to say. I dragged him out of there and got him back as quickly as possible. When he was asleep... I told our general."

"What did he say?"

"He thanked me for telling him then told me to go on my way and act as if nothing happened." John frowned at this and absent-mindedly wiped his hands on the towel. "I'm not sure if the other people who went after the Major ever overheard him saying things he shouldn't, and then they were told to ignore it, or if it was just me. Either way, Williams was the same as ever the next day, and I was never asked to go after him again." John hesitated, and Sherlock frowned.

"But?" he prompted.

John sighed. "But two days after I told the General, Major Williams was found dead in his bunker."

Sherlock leant back in his chair and was silent as he considered this. "Who found him?" he asked.

There was a long pause before John answered. "Nick." he said.

Sherlock's eyes positively lit up and he sat upright, steepling his fingers together.

By now John was facing the sink again, and he had his head bowed, knowing what was going through his flatmate's head. "Sherlock," he said softly. "I know that sounds suspicious, but please don't jump to conclusions. When he found Geoffrey's body, he stumbled into our bunker and was as white as a sheet. His hands were covered in blood where he'd obviously tried to stop the bleeding and he kept looking at us all with wide eyes. If there is one person who was not involved in Major Williams' suicide, it's Nick Harper."

The detective didn't say anything; merely watched as John turned to look at him, clearly expecting a reply.

"Alright." Sherlock answered after a while, and John smiled slightly. He walked past Sherlock and settled in his armchair, scooping up his laptop. Sherlock remained where he was, his mind running over the day and all its events. There was one thought that had been nagging him ever since he got to the crime scene, but he had concerns about telling John. He knew the doctor would most probably try to cover for his friend, but he doubted he would be able to find an excuse for this.

The block of army flats where Nick was staying had shown no signs of renovation.


	3. Chapter 3

11am the next day and DI Lestrade visited. John was at work and Nick had gone to visit some friends. Sherlock was rummaging through the mess on the table when he heard Mrs Hudson downstairs talking to someone. Their landlady had immediately warmed to Nick – much to John's relief – and she was always finding excuses to come upstairs and chat with him. Now that he was out, though, she had been moping about their kitchen, muttering about the state of the flat and how she was surprised Nick hadn't said anything about it.

Sherlock had shrugged her off with an eye roll when the doorbell had sounded, and he let her potter downstairs to answer it. He recognised the DI's heavy and tired footfall and he smirked; clearly things were not going well with the missus.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked from behind him, and Sherlock didn't answer immediately; instead, he continued to move aside papers and objects until he realised what he was looking for wasn't on the table, so he moved to the bookshelves.

"Looking for something." he answered eventually.

"What is it?"

"Case file."

"Case file? You're on another case?"

"What? No, I'm not on another case. It's a file on a person." Sherlock explained, scanning each shelf individually.

"Oh. Which person?"

"You don't know him."

"I still want to know."

Sherlock stopped and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Nicholas Harper, alright?"

Lestrade's face was blank. "The bloke who was with you yesterday at the Yard? Who is he?"

The detective rolled his eyes and strolled into the kitchen, opening and closing every cupboard. "What do you want?"

"Geoffrey Williams. What have you got on him?"

Sherlock smirked. "You're the detective, surely you should be telling me?"

"Just get on with it, Sherlock."

The detective walked back into the living room and began pacing. "A fifty-seven year old divorced alcoholic who returned from the military six years ago–"

"Yeah, I knew that."

"–In a coffin."

"_What_?"

"You heard me, Inspector."

"No, I don't think I did. He _died_ six years ago?"

"Correct."

Lestrade passed a hand over his face. "Sherlock–"

"All records show that Major Geoffrey Williams committed suicide on the 19th of May six years ago by cutting the radial artery on his left wrist. He was buried in St Woolos Cemetery in Newport two weeks later. End of story. But..."

"...Then he turns up dead – again – six years later in Putney with a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and no scars from slit wrists." Lestrade finished, a frown forming on his face.

"You need to speak to relatives and friends; look for any signs that they might be hiding something. Williams would have had to have gone to _someone_ for those six years. How else would he have gotten out of Afghanistan?"

"Alright, fine. What are you going to do?" As he asked, Greg began moving towards the door.

"I'm going to speak to John's friend. He was the person who found Williams six years ago."

"Who is he, exactly?"

"Who?"

"Nick Harper."

"Oh, he and John served together in Afghanistan for a few years. When John got shot, Nick saved him. They've kept in contact ever since."

"He seemed nice."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is this just a chat now, Inspector? Because I've got things to do."

"No, no, I'm going. I can tell when I'm not wanted." Raising a hand in goodbye, the DI left the flat, closing the door behind him.

Seconds after he heard the front door shut, Sherlock practically leapt on the table, shoving papers and books out the way, in search of that infuriatingly elusive case file. He heard a crash as he knocked John's mug to the floor, causing it to shatter, but he paid it no heed. He couldn't understand where the file had gone. He cast his mind back to yesterday, when Mycroft had come by with it. His brother had placed it on the table and then made to leave. Nick arrived and told Sherlock he'd found Williams. By then, Mycroft was gone, and the file was still on the table. Sherlock had gone to his room to get his coat, and when he came back, Nick was waiting for him by the door. They left to go to the crime scene, and after visiting Scotland Yard, Nick had parted with him to visit his ex-wife and daughter, so Sherlock had arrived at 221B alone.

John was at home, so had he found the file? But he had asked the detective how Mycroft had known so much about Nick, assuming Sherlock had blabbed, and he was the one to tell the doctor there had been a case file. But had John been bluffing? Had he already found it, but instead of confronting Sherlock, he gave him a chance to explain? It seemed the sort of thing John would do, but if it concerned Nick, would he wait for an explanation?

It was either that or Mycroft had taken it. But the elder Holmes had known that Sherlock hadn't yet looked through it, so why take it back when he knew it hadn't been touched? Had it been just to taunt him? He remembered Mycroft's coldness towards Nick when they came face to face, however, so he doubted Mycroft would want to keep him in the dark about the soldier's past.

So where was it? Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned the messy living room, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out where it was. It was maddening yet also enthralling.

"What are you up to?"

The detective whirled to see Nick Harper stood in the doorway, halfway through taking his jacket off and watching him with his eyebrows raised.

"Looking for something. Why?"

Nick shrugged as he removed his coat and hung it up. "Just wondering." he answered, moving over to sit on the couch and shoving aside the duvet that had been placed there during his stay. "So have you got anywhere with finding out who killed Major Williams?"

"You didn't tell me that he had supposedly died six years ago. Why?" Sherlock settled into his own chair, gazing at Nick with a piercing expression.

"I guess it slipped my mind." the soldier said. "A dead body was the last thing I was expecting to see when I went into the basement. I didn't really think upon the fact that the Major should have been dead already; and for all I knew someone had just unearthed his coffin and decided to leave him there."

"But why would they do that?"

Nick shrugged. "Why does anyone do anything?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at the unintentional quote, but Nick was still speaking, oblivious to the detective's expression. "I was planning on telling you that the Major should have been dead, but then John texted me later on to ask if I was alright, so I figured you would've known by then."

"And you were the one to find the Major when he committed suicide six years ago?"

Nick's expression darkened. "Yes." he answered quietly.

"Where was the wound?"

Nick frowned. "Didn't John tell you?"

"I'm asking you."

"Uh... it was the left wrist, I think. I thought it strange that he only cut one wrist, but then again I'm not an expert in methods of suicide, am I?"

"Aren't you?"

"What? No! Of course I'm not. What on earth would make you say that?"

Sherlock fought a smirk, remembering John's words the previous day.

_ It's funny winding you up_.

Although now really wasn't the time for it, Sherlock could tell he was winding Nick up, and it _was_ somewhat amusing.

"Whereabouts was Williams' body when you found it?"

"In his own bunker. Slumped across his desk with his arms outstretched, eyes still open. I tell you, out of all the things I had seen in that desert, the image of those lifeless blue eyes will haunt me for the rest of my days. Probably John's too." he added solemnly.

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped, eyebrows raising.

"Well, when I found the Major, I ran back to get John, because I knew he was close by and he was one of the best doctors with us. I was still holding onto the hope that the Major could be saved, so John immediately covered his wrist and began CPR on him, trying anything to get him resuscitated. From what I gathered, Major Williams had taken some sort of drug that slowed his heart rate right down, but whether that shortened the time it took for him to die, I don't know.

"Anyhow, John had been doing nonstop compressions on the man for five minutes, easy. When more medics arrived, they practically had to tear him off the Major. And he had this look in his eyes, one that he got whenever someone's life had been lost under him. He took it personally, of course, like he did with every poor sod that died while he was trying to save them. He just stayed in our bunker and wouldn't talk to anyone for a few hours. His eyes kept darting about the room like he was waiting for something else to happen.

"But I'm getting off track. So yeah, they took his body away after having pronounced him dead at the scene. I think it was blood loss that eventually did it, not whatever drug he'd taken beforehand."

"Was he sent back to England for the funeral?" Sherlock asked, his mind still imagining what it must have been like for John.

"Of course, yeah." Nick nodded. "Yeah, his family wanted him back home, to give him a proper memorial. Was a simple service, but it's a great deal more than some blokes out there would get anyway. Didn't John tell you this?"

"No, he didn't mention it."

"Well, I suppose it is personal. Probably brings back bad memories."

"You seem to be able to talk about it fine, yet John told me you were white as a sheet when you came looking for him."

Nick gazed at him sternly. "Of course I was affected. I couldn't sleep for weeks after it. John had to literally force feed me food, I was that upset. Williams was a good man, and it was a damn shame to see him go."

Sherlock nodded absently, his fingers pressed together in a prayer-like position.

"How did you do it?"

The detective glanced across at Nick, eyebrows raised. "Do what?" he asked.

"Stay alive."

Sherlock pursed his lips for a few moments, before drawing a blank. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"John told me you were dead."

Sherlock sighed. He'd known the question was going to rise sooner or later, but he had been hoping it would be later.

"It was necessary. Lives were in danger, so I had to jump."

"Jump?"

"Yes. Off St. Bart's hospital. A 70ft drop."

"So... how did you do it?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Does John know?"

"Of course he does. He's my best friend." Sherlock tried so very hard not to put emphasis on the 'my'.

"...Have you apologised?"

The detective sighed and stood up. He didn't have to answer to Nick, and he didn't like talking about it anyway, so he made to go to his room. He was prevented from doing so, however, by a firm grasp on his arm.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me." Nick said, looking down at the floor and releasing Sherlock. "It's just that..." he sighed, before looking at Sherlock with a hard glint in his eyes. "I think of John as my little brother, and I'm always looking out for him. And when he... er... called me, to tell me you'd just killed yourself, I could hear how broken he sounded, and it tore me to bits. He didn't tell me it was you, just his best friend, but I can tell now anyway just by looking at the two of you. And now that you are back, I just wanted to know that everything was definitely OK between you and him."

"It's fine." Sherlock answered shortly. "And I... appreciate your concern."

Nick nodded, and sat back on the sofa. "Alright. Sorry." he repeated.

Before any of them had a chance to say something, Sherlock's phone trilled, and he answered it abruptly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, it's Greg. Listen, I've just got a call, and there's been another one."

"Another murder?"

"Yeah. Ryan Panes, bullet to the back of his head."

"I see." Sherlock hummed. So this was a serial killer? "You think the deaths are linked. Why?"

There was a deep intake of breath on the other line before Lestrade spoke again. "Because Ryan Panes died six years ago. Suicide."


	4. Chapter 4

"Whereabouts is the scene?"

"Foxley Road. And so far the house he was found in has no connection to him. If you leave now you should get here in about 20 minutes." DI Lestrade answered.

"Yes, I know. Don't let Anderson touch anything until I'm there." Sherlock hung up the phone and moved towards the door. As he put on his coat, he glanced over at Nick, who was sat on the sofa with his head in his hands. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"You alright?" he asked somewhat reluctantly.

Nick jumped, and looked up at the detective. "Hmm? Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Who was on the phone?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. There's been another murder."

"Really? Who is it?"

"Ryan Panes." Sherlock answered. Nick nodded absentmindedly, even though Sherlock could tell the soldier didn't know who he was.

"Shall I come with you?"

The detective paused with his hand on the door, and turned back to Nick in surprise.

"No... er... it's fine. I'll be better off alone." he said somewhat awkwardly, having been caught by surprise by Nick's offer.

"Okay." the soldier answered, unfazed by Sherlock's rejection. "Did you want me to call John, then? Tell him what's happened?"

"I can do it." Sherlock responded immediately, somewhat defiantly. "... but thanks." he added.

Nick grinned and got up to go to the kitchen. "Alright. See you later."

Sherlock nodded, more to himself, as Nick couldn't see his actions, before going out and hurrying down the stairs. While he was waiting for a cab, he pulled out his phone.

_ Been another murder. Same method of death; bullet to the back of the head. Also meant to be dead six years ago – SH_

A few minutes later, and after a cab had been hailed, Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_ Name? – JW _

Sherlock replied without hesitation. _Ryan Panes – SH _

He didn't receive a reply until fifteen minutes later, when he was close to the crime scene.

_ I knew him – JW _

Sherlock frowned down at his phone, taking in the three words. When had John known him? Had Panes been a soldier, and that was the link between Major Williams and him? Because all of this definitely couldn't be a coincidence. Could it?

He quickly fired back a reply as the taxi reached Foxley Road. _We'll talk later – SH_

* * *

An hour later and Sherlock trudged up the seventeen steps to 221B. Ryan Panes had been a thirty seven year old surgeon who worked in the city. He'd never been in the army. From what the records showed, he probably never even considered it. He had been married with three children aged four, seven, and eight. No criminal record, although he had once gotten in a bar fight a few years ago, though Sherlock surmised that wasn't important.

Upon entering the kitchen, Sherlock was surprised to see John sat at the table, nibbling on a sandwich whilst listening to Nick, who was opposite him. When he saw Sherlock, the doctor smiled tiredly, before returning his attention to the soldier.

Sherlock moved into the living room and took his time taking off his coat and scarf, and when he sensed a lull in the conversation going on behind him, he walked back into the kitchen and quickly interjected.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he asked John.

"I'm on my lunch break." the doctor explained. "Did you smash my mug?" He nodded over to the living room at the pile of porcelain shards on the floor under the table, where Sherlock had knocked the mug over in his search for Nick's case file.

"Yes. What are you doing here?"

"I told you; I'm on my lunch break. And you're cleaning that mess up."

"But you don't normally come back here for lunch."

John tilted his head slightly. "Well no, but I'd forgotten my sandwich. And then I decided to stay here and chat with Nick instead of eating alone at a desk." he smiled. "Plus someone needs to make sure you eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I'll get round to that. We have something to do first, remember? Bedroom?"

John groaned and put his head in his hands. "Nick, would you believe me if I told you that wasn't what it sounded like?"

The soldier grinned and raised his glass to them. "What you two do during your lunch break is none of my business."

John shook his head and got up from the table, gripping Sherlock's arm and leading him to the detective's bedroom.

"You really need to watch what you say, you know." he said as Sherlock closed the door behind them.

"Ugh, not my fault. Tell me about Ryan Panes."

John sighed and sank down on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"He lived in a house opposite the army flat that I stayed in whenever I was on leave. We came to know each other and we were good mates. He was nice." John shrugged, remorse gleaming in his eyes.

"Were you aware that he had killed himself six years ago?"

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, and you're gonna love it when I tell you that I was the one who found him." He smiled grimly.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"I'm hardly going to joke about that, now, am I?"

"And he was definitely dead?"

"Definitely dead." John confirmed.

"Same method as Geoffrey Williams?"

"Yeah. Cut his left wrist."

"When did you find him?"

John sighed. "It was the day before I was leaving to go back to Afghanistan. I was visiting everyone I knew, and I got to his house during the afternoon, but when I knocked there was no answer. I turned to go, but then I noticed someone lying down in the living room through the window. I moved closer, and was able to recognise Ryan. I rushed into the house and tried to save him."

"But he was already dead?"

"But he was already dead, yeah."

Sherlock tapped his lip, deep in thought. "Was there any way Ryan might have met Geoffrey Williams?" he asked.

John frowned. "I don't think so. Why, do you think these are connected?"

Sherlock sighed. "Of course they're connected, John. And as soon as we find the link, we'll know why."

"What are you going to do now, then?" John asked.

"Hmm? Oh, Lestrade managed to find out that before Panes 'died', he went to a pub every week or so with some friends. I'm going to go there and hopefully those friends will still be there. It's a long shot, but until something else comes up, it's the best we can do." As he spoke, he opened the bedroom door and strolled back into the kitchen, John close behind him.

Nick glanced up as they entered, a smirk playing on his face. "Finished your – ahem – business?"

"Shut it." John replied, fighting a smile as he sat back down at the table, Sherlock hovering beside him. "Sit down and eat, Sherlock." the doctor said.

"Can't. I'm thinking."

"Sherlock, sit." John countered, his voice growing sterner.

"I just told you, John, I'm–"

"I don't care. Sit down, _now_."

John's voice held no room for arguing, and so with a dramatic sigh, the detective sank into the seat next to his flatmate. He remained silent as a plate containing a sandwich was pushed in front of him.

"Eat." John commanded, smiling sweetly at the glare Sherlock sent him before the younger man begrudgingly picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

"Thank you. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

If looks could kill, John would have been six feet under within seconds.

Ten minutes later and three plates were in the sink waiting to be washed. John was sliding on his jacket as Sherlock waited impatiently by the door. The doctor frowned at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you. Hurry up." Sherlock answered.

John raised his eyebrows. "I'm... going to work, Sherlock. No, don't look at me like that. The flu's currently spreading across London like wildfire, and we barely have enough doctors at the surgery as it is. I'm sorry, but I can't go with you."

Sherlock sighed and shot John another glare, before turning to the door.

"I'll go with you, if you want."

Both John and Sherlock spun to see Nick stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised.

Sherlock looked back at John, almost as if he was asking permission, and the doctor shrugged and smiled – somewhat hesitantly – at him.

The detective turned back to Nick. "Well come on then. We haven't got all day." He flew down the stairs and out the door within seconds, leaving Nick to struggle with his coat and stumble after him. John shook his head and smirked as he followed the two downstairs and locked the front door, as he knew Mrs Hudson was away.

Sherlock already had a cab waiting, and, in an unexpected act of chivalrousness, stepped aside to let Nick in. Once the soldier had sat down, Sherlock looked across at John.

"Thank you, Sherlock." the doctor said earnestly, and Sherlock knew he wasn't thanking him just for letting Nick in first. The detective nodded, before getting into the cab himself, leaving John standing alone on the pavement and waiting for his own cab.

* * *

"So, what are we looking for here?" Nick asked as the two of them stepped into the pub.

"Friends or family of Ryan Panes." the detective answered. "We need to know if Ryan had made contact with anyone during the seven years he was supposed to be dead." He saw Nick nod, and he led him over to the bar, where a middle-aged, plump man was tending it.

"What can I get you two?" he asked with a smile, which immediately looked practised.

Sherlock looked across at Nick, and inclined his head ever so slightly, as if to say, _you wanted to be here, let's see how good you are_. Nick shifted nervously, and flashed a polite smile at the bar keeper.

"Actually, we were hoping to have a word with you." he said,

"Sure, what about?" the practiced smile had faded, replaced with a concerned look.

"How long have you worked here?"

The man thought for a moment. "About ten years, I think."

"Is it just you?"

"No, my wife and I own the pub."

"What's your name?"

The bar keeper frowned. "Who wants to know?"

Nick suddenly felt something small and hard press into his hand, and he looked down to see Sherlock trying to give him a small, plastic card. He took one look at the name on it, before flashing it at the bar man.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." he answered, deciding to worry about how Sherlock came into possession of this later.

The barman suddenly looked a lot more nervous. "My name's Daniel Betrag."

Nick nodded. "Do you remember a man called Ryan Panes?"

Mr. Betrag sighed and a look of concentration passed his face. "Not sure." he said after a moment. "Describe him."

At this point, Sherlock stepped forward, his icy gaze piercing the man in front of him. "You know who we're talking about." he said sternly. "When Inspector Lestrade mentioned his name you looked over to a group of men sitting in the corner." Sherlock gestured with a thumb behind him, not bothering to look. "So you can either tell us how those men are connected, or I'll ask them myself."

"Go on then." A gruff voice behind them made Sherlock roll his eyes, before he turned around to glare at the three tall, burly men who had previously been sat in the corner of the pub, and were now glowering down at him.

"You Sherlock Holmes?" the one in the middle asked gruffly.

"Yes." Sherlock replied in a bored tone. "What can I do for–?" He was abruptly cut off when a powerful fist smashed into his face, knocking him to the floor.

"Make sure he doesn't wake up," was the last thing he heard before a set of hands picked him up and slammed him into the bar, his head colliding with the wood and knocking him unconscious instantly.

* * *

John closed the door of 221B with a tired sigh and traipsed up the stairs, his feet lagging behind him. Work had been hectic, and he wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. He stopped suddenly when he heard a crash from above, and the exhaustion he had been feeling before suddenly vanished, replaced with a buzz of adrenaline. The door to 221B had been locked, meaning that it wasn't Sherlock or Nick upstairs. Knowing that whoever _was _upstairs had probably already heard him, hence the crash, he wasted no more time in rushing up and into the living room, gaping in shock at the person stood in front of him.

"_Mycroft?_ What on earth are you doing?"

The government official was stood near the sofa and had obviously been waiting for John to come upstairs, having already heard him.

"You're back from work early." he said quietly.

John closed the door behind him and moved into the living room. "Yeah, my last patient cancelled, so I came home. What are you doing here?"

"Hmm? Nothing, nothing. Just checking up on the three of you."

John tilted his head. "But you knew we wouldn't be here."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Did I?"

"Yes." John's gaze settled on the floor space between the sofa and end of the table. "There are a pile of books on the floor that hadn't been there before, which means that you were looking for something on the table because you knew none of us would be back yet. The books could have fallen to the floor and you were planning on putting them back when you were done. Either that, or I caught you by surprise and as you turned around you knocked the books off. Which was it?"

Despite being caught, Mycroft still had the good grace to look mildly impressed. "Yes, that's right. I was looking for something on the table."

The doctor crossed his arms. "What is it?" he asked.

"Case file on Nick Harper." Mycroft answered swiftly, linking his hands behind his back. "I was going to take it back, but I can't find it."

"Why didn't you ask Sherlock for it?"

The elder Holmes rolled his eyes. "Because I know he won't give it back yet. He hasn't had a chance to look through it."

"Then why are you taking it back?"

"Because I think it has been at risk of being seen by Mr. Harper for too long, don't you? I would be grateful if you told me where it was, though. I last put it on the table. Did Sherlock move it?"

John licked his lips. "You're not going to find it there. It's in my room."

Mycroft's gaze hardened. "No it's not."

"How would you know?" John smiled triumphantly. "The cameras?"

The government official sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing.

"Show me your hands."

Mycroft looked up sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, show me your hands. _Please_."

The elder Holmes did nothing for a moment, before he slowly raised his hands, palms facing John. The doctor was not convinced.

"Now take whatever it was you put in your back pocket out and show me."

"Impressive." Mycroft said, somewhat resignedly, as he reached into his back pocket.

"I live with Sherlock. I know when people are hiding things from me."

Mycroft nodded and opened his left hand to reveal a small, black, circular disc.

John stepped forward and examined it. "What is it?" he asked, giving it back and looking at the government official.

Mycroft sighed, closing his hand. "A tracker."

John frowned. "Where were you going to...?" He trailed off as his gaze fell once again upon the books on the floor, then he looked to the left to see Nick's gym bag beside it.

He glanced back at Mycroft. "You were going to place it in Nick's bag?"

"Yes." the elder Holmes answered quietly.

"So you weren't really looking for that case file. You knocked over the books when I came in and caught you by surprise. Why are you bugging Nick's bag?"

"You know why, John."

"No, I don't. Tell me." John could feel his patience wearing thin, and he watched Mycroft expectantly.

"He's dangerous. I don't trust him around Sherlock." the government official said sternly.

"No, he's changed. He's past that, he told me."

"And you believe him?" Mycroft scoffed.

"Yes. He's one of my best mates. He wouldn't lie to me."

"John–"

"Don't. I know you don't trust him near your brother, and yes, you've got good reason to, but I'm watching them closely, so don't worry, nothing will happen to him."

At that moment, the door to the living room burst open, and Greg Lestrade and Nick Harper rushed in, the two of them supporting a beaten, bleeding and unconscious Sherlock.

John just had time to see Mycroft's cold gaze settle on him, before he hurried forward and helped move Sherlock to the sofa.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was laid gently on the couch, and John placed a hand over the detective's forehead, his eyes scanning over his friend's body.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked worriedly. Sherlock moaned slightly, but did not respond.

"What the hell happened?" he growled, before moving into the bathroom and wetting a flannel, then striding back into the living room. He glanced at Nick with his eyebrows raised.

"We – er – we went to the pub where Ryan Panes used to go. Sherlock let me ask some questions, but when I asked the bar keeper about Panes, he – I don't know – he must've gestured to these three blokes in the corner, because next thing I know they're right behind us and they knocked Sherlock out cold. Then they started beating him, anywhere they could reach. I tried to stop them, but..."

John nodded, not really listening. He looked across at Greg, who was hovering behind him nervously. "Greg, come here." he asked. The DI knelt beside him at Sherlock's head, and John passed him the flannel. "Clean the cuts on his face. And also the gash on the back of his head. Be gentle, though." he commanded. Greg obliged as John gingerly raised Sherlock's shirt up and began softly palpating Sherlock's ribs, checking for any fractures or breaks.

"And what about you, Greg?" John asked. "Where were you?"

"I was still at the crime scene when Sherlock went to the pub. I got a call saying there was a fight just around the corner in the bar. When I got there, like Nick said, these guys were practically on top of Sherlock. I managed to break it up, and got a nice left hook for my troubles." Greg grimaced slightly, and John glanced up, now being able to see the blossoming bruise forming on the Inspector's right cheek.

"I'm sorry, Greg, you should have said something sooner. Mycroft, could you fetch... um... three bags of ice and the same amount of towels, please?" He heard the elder Holmes walk away, and moments later, three bags of ice, already wrapped in the towels, were held out in front of him.

"Cheers. Greg, put that against your cheek." Lestrade took one of the packs from him, and followed John's orders. Meanwhile, John placed one of the other bags against Sherlock's ribs.

"I don't think his ribs are fractured, but they'll definitely bruise." He brushed his fingers against the detective's neck. "And it looks as though one of them were trying to _choke_ him. Who the hell were they?"

Greg shrugged. "I dunno. But it was when they were strangling him that I arrived. Poor sod was nearly blue in the face."

"Not helping Greg." John muttered.

"Sorry. But they're all in custody now, anyhow. And believe me; they aren't getting out for a long while."

The doctor nodded as Nick's phone suddenly rang. The soldier glanced up guiltily. "Do you mind...?" He waved his phone in the air.

"Fine, fine." John murmured, still focused on Sherlock.

"Is there anywhere I can take this... privately?"

"Use my bedroom." John answered. "Upstairs. But take your shoes off first." Greg and Mycroft shot him a curious look, but Nick shrugged and slipped off his boots, before rushing to John's room.

"Actually, I'd better be off, if you're alright here." Greg said, getting to his feet. "You know, paperwork and all that."

"Yes of course, that's fine." John answered, this time looking up at the DI. "And thanks for helping." he added.

"Anytime. I'll be back tomorrow for a statement from Sherlock, if that's alright?" At John's nod, he said goodbye to them both before taking his leave.

John gently laid the third ice pack across Sherlock's throat, before sitting back on his heels and sighing.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I didn't think things would get this bad so quickly." he said solemnly.

Mycroft came to stand next to his crouching form. "It's alright, John. It's not your fault." he answered quietly. "With Sherlock snooping around, this was bound to happen one way or another."

"I should've gone with him." John muttered. Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder, and John inclined his head to him, looking at the floor.

"Where did you put that tracker?" he asked softly.

"It's still in my pocket. Why?"

"Can I have it, please?" John held out his hand, looking up at the elder Holmes.

"What are you going to do with it?"As he spoke, Mycroft placed the tracker in John's hand. The doctor sighed, but didn't say anything. Instead, he got up and picked up one of Nick's boots. He knew the inside tongue could be split in half and easily resealed, so he quickly opened it up and slipped the tracker inside, before sticking the two sides together again. Mycroft watched him do this with his eyebrows raised.

"That's why you asked him to take his shoes off?"

John nodded, then gestured to the bugged boot. "But I don't want you turning it on unless I say so, alright?"

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I can do that." he agreed. "And now that I see Sherlock is in safe hands, I think I'll go too."

"Okay, see you later." John said, his attention back on Sherlock as he moved to sit on the floor next to him. Mycroft left moments later.

John retrieved the duvet from the end of the sofa and gently placed it over his flatmate. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He sighed in relief when the detective's eyelids fluttered, before opening to reveal dimmed grey eyes blinking up at him.

"Hey," he said softly. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock grunted as an answer, before attempting to sit up.

"No, no, stay where you are." John tenderly placed a hand on his shoulder and set him back down. "Look at me, Sherlock. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Why d'you want to know that?" Sherlock rasped, frowning.

"To check for concussion, which I'm sure you already have going by the gash on your head, but it's useful anyway. So how many?"

"Three." the detective croaked. John served to confuse him further by holding his hand behind his back.

"Now how many?"

"I thought the patient was supposed to be able to see them?" Sherlock whispered, eyeing him suspiciously.

"But we need to know that the concussion hasn't affected those deductive abilities of yours." John countered, smiling.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then settled his gaze on John for a moment. "Five." he determined.

John grinned. "I'm not going to even ask how you knew that." he said. "But stop talking for now, your throat is still recovering. You can sleep if you want to."

"M'not tired." the detective murmured, shifting back into the cushions.

"Alright then." John smiled. "Don't sleep."

"Reverse psychology... won't work." Sherlock muttered.

"Okay. Sleep then."

"Stop it." The faintest traces of a smirk decorated Sherlock's face as his eyes closed. John got up to go to the kitchen, but he was stopped suddenly, by long fingers grasping his wrist.

"Wait." Sherlock said, albeit quietly. John turned to look at him and waited for him to continue.

"Need to... tell you something." he murmured, once again fighting sleep.

"Sherlock, you can tell me once you've rested." John said, patting Sherlock's arm.

The detective carried on as if John hadn't said anything. "S'about... Nick..."

"What about him?"

"His flat... wasn't... wasn't..."

"Sherlock? Wasn't what?"

Sherlock's eyelids drooped. "... Wasn't renovated." he whispered. "No changes."

John's heart dropped as Sherlock's eyes closed fully. "Okay." he muttered, his thumb grazing across the detective's forehead. "Sleep now Sherlock, it's okay." He watched as Sherlock went fully limp, and sighed.

A creak on the stairs made him look up, and when he saw Nick stood in the doorway, he moved towards him and joined the soldier out on the landing, closing the door behind him so that they wouldn't disturb Sherlock.

"What is going on, Nick?" John asked through gritted teeth.

Nick frowned, "John, I told you–"

"Yes, you told me some cock and bull story about Sherlock getting into a fight, and you leaping to his aid."

"It's the truth–"

"If it's the truth, then why isn't there a scratch on you?" John accused, his arms gesturing to Nick's barely even rumpled clothing and clean face. "DI Lestrade arrived halfway through and he got a black eye for it. From what it looks like, you were stood on the sidelines whilst everything happened."

Nick looked down at his feet, shame clearly written across his features. John scoffed.

"Don't look like that. It's not going to work. Now please tell me, what is going on?"

"I could ask you the same question!" Nick exclaimed, looking up. "You told everyone the detective was dead! How did you think I felt walking into this flat only to find out that not only is he not dead, but you're living with him as well?!"

"Why should it matter, Nick? I–"

"It _matters_, because now _he _knows!"

"Who?" John asked, frowning.

"Who do you think, John?" Nick answered, his eyes gleaming with concern.

"I thought you were done with them." John replied, crossing his arms. "You left when I did, remember?"

Nick sighed, his shoulders slumping. "John," he said in a quieter voice. "Tigris is pissed. I know that he's known Sherlock's alive for a few years, but he's taking action _now_."

"Tigris was always such a stupid name." The doctor muttered.

Nick shook his head. "You're not listening to me, John."

"He's in jail, anyway. I know he is."

"Well, now he's not. John, please–"

"But what I want to know," the doctor said sternly, "Is _why_ this is happening now. It can't be a coincidence, the fact that Major Williams and Ryan died when you showed up."

"John I came here to warn you. I heard that you were living with Sherlock, and I knew I needed to do something. I was damn lucky that I was on leave a week after I found out Tigris's plans."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" John asked, throwing his hands up. "You've been here almost a week, you've had plenty of time to warn me!"

"Yes, but I was hoping that nothing would actually happen! That I would stay for the week and catch up with my best mate, before returning to Afghanistan. If there was any sign Tigris was near I would've told you, I swear."

John shook his head. "And how do you know that Tigris won't wait until you're gone? Then what?"

Nick sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I panicked, John." he said. "When I heard his plan, all I knew was I needed to get here. I haven't had time to think it through."

John was still weary. "And what, exactly, is Tigris's plan?"

Nick's apologetic eyes met John's firm ones. "To kill Sherlock."

The doctor pursed his lips, shaking his head and turning to go, but he was stopped by Nick's hand on his arm. He faced the soldier again.

"This wouldn't have happened, John, if you had completed that mission properly." he said unsympathetically. "You wouldn't be in danger. I wouldn't be in danger. This mess... it's down to you."

"I think you should go." John said, avoiding eye contact.

"Yeah, alright. I could do with some fresh air." Nick agreed.

"No... Nick, I think you should leave. For good."

The soldier raised his eyebrows. "And go where?"

"To your flat?" John suggested, anger suddenly fuelling him.

"What? I said it–"

"...Was being refurbished, yes. But you forget that you took Sherlock there a few days ago. He told me there were no signs of renovation. Now, I don't want to know why you lied; I don't care what excuses you give me, I just want you gone."

"John, I'm sorry for any inconveniences I've caused, but..." Nick began, but the doctor shook his head.

"Bringing my best friend back home unconscious is far from an _inconvenience_, Nick. I would be more understanding if you had at least helped him, but I know that's not true. I'm sorry, too, but I don't want you endangering him anymore."

Nick shifted. "Do you want me gone _now_?" he asked, turning towards the stairs.

John sighed. "No, you can sleep in my room for tonight, but by tomorrow morning I don't want you here."

"Okay." he said quietly and trudged up the stairs, closing the bedroom door behind him.

John sighed and went back into the living room. Sherlock was still asleep, so he quietly moved the coffee table towards the door, then dragged his armchair close to the sofa, in the spot where the table had been moments before. He glanced around the room briefly until he found his gun lying on the mantlepiece, and he retrieved it before sitting down in his chair, the gun lying in his lap.

Sherlock shifted, then groaned softly. "...John?" he croaked, eyes still closed, his forehead creasing in pain.

The doctor leaned forward. "Shh, it's okay, Sherlock. Go back to sleep." He ran his hand softly through Sherlock's hair repeatedly, until he knew his flatmate was asleep again. He kept his hand there as he settled in for a long night, keeping watch.

"John. John. John. John. John. _John_..."

The doctor felt himself coming back to consciousness, having realised he'd fallen asleep, but he kept his eyes closed.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he murmured, fighting a yawn.

"Your hand's on my face." the detective replied.

"What?" John opened his eyes and looked across at Sherlock, noting how his hand was stretched across the detective's face, though the younger man made no move to remove it himself. "Oh, sorry." He quickly withdrew it.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Sore." Sherlock answered. John nodded and headed to the kitchen.

"I'm not surprised. You've got a lovely collection of bruises scattered over you." He came back with some paracetamol and a glass of water, and handed them to Sherlock, who sat up and quickly consumed both the pills and the water.

"Thirsty?" John teased, taking the empty glass and putting it on the table.

"My throat feels funny." Sherlock frowned. "It hurts when I talk."

"Well you can thank the finger-shaped bruises on your neck for that."

"And my chest is stiff."

"That'll be the foot-shaped bruises."

"And my cheeks feel like they're burning."

"Hence the fist-shaped bruises. Like I said, a lovely collection."

Sherlock's fingers travelled up to his head, and he winced when he found the big gash. "Did someone stab my head?" he asked suddenly.

"No, they threw you against something, I'd imagine. No knives were involved, I assure you."

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, before looking up at John. "Why are you sitting so close?"

"Because my chair is here."

"Why's your chair so close?"

"I moved it."

"Why?"

"So I could put my hand on your face."

The detective ignored the last comment, and also ignored the growing smirk on John's face. He watched the doctor suspiciously, instead. "You've angled the chair so that it's facing the door, and your gun is lying in your lap. Who did you think was going to sneak in during the middle of the night?"

"Mrs Hudson."

"_John_."

"Alright, I'm sorry. But after the attack on you, I was just being cautious."

"There's a difference between being cautious and being paranoid."

"It's a very fine line."

"Not really."

"Yes really. I've been on both sides of the line before. I'm being cautious, believe me."

Sherlock shrugged, no longer interested. Instead, he flopped back down on the sofa and closed his eyes. "Were you up all night?"

"For the most of it, yes."

"To wait for Mrs Hudson?"

John smirked. "That, and to clean up your vomit."

Sherlock frowned. "I vomited?"

"Twice."

"Because of the foot-shaped bruises."

"And the finger-shaped ones, yes."

"Hmm." was all Sherlock said.

"John?" he said, after a few minutes.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Who's Tigris?"


	6. Chapter 6

John blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "He – er – that's not his real name, you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'd gathered that. Latin for 'tiger', though. Who is he?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "How about because according to you, he poses a serious threat to me?"

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"Is he the reason you've been up all night?"

"Possibly."

"John..."

"Sherlock, I'm sorting it out, don't worry."

"I'm not worried."

"Good. There's no reason to be."

"Which is why I'm not."

Both men came to a standstill, silently gazing at one another. John knew Sherlock was deducing him to try and work out who Tigris was, but he looked away.

"Stop it, Sherlock. You'll strain yourself."

He heard Sherlock scoff behind him. "That's hardly going to affect my health."

"You're still recovering from being beaten half to death. Just lie down and rest."

"How can I if there's someone out there baying for my blood? Shouldn't I be moved to a safe house or something?" the detective said sarcastically, frustration building up inside of him.

"I thought you weren't worried?"

"I'm not."

"You're borderline paranoid, though."

"Nope, I'm just being cautious."

John glared at him, but before he could say anything, Sherlock's phone rang. The two of them looked at it sitting on the table, before John realised that Sherlock expected him to get it. With an exaggerated sigh, he moved and answered it.

"Hello?"

"John? It's Greg. How's Sherlock?"

"Getting there. His witty personality has returned, which is always good." he said, glancing at Sherlock, who glowered at him.

"Do you think he'd be able to come take a look at a crime scene for us? There's been another murder, same method as before."

"...I don't know, Greg. He still needs to rest."

"No, sure. Do you mind if I pop round later to talk to him, then? I still need to get a statement about last night, too."

"Yeah, that's fine. Actually, can I ask who died?" As he spoke, he subconsciously moved away from Sherlock and into the kitchen.

"Umm..." There was a long pause as Greg looked for some form of identification. "Tracy Fordes, it says on her driving license. That all?"

"Yeah, yeah, ok, bye." John said absently, his mind elsewhere as he hung up the phone. He put the mobile in his pocket and moved into the kitchen. "That was Greg." he said as he flicked on the kettle, knowing Sherlock was going to ask sooner or later.

"There's been another murder." John jumped when Sherlock's voice was closer than anticipated, and he spun to see the detective stood on the opposite side of the dining table, leaning on the seat and watching John closely.

"You're supposed to be resting!" John said in exasperation, sighing in defeat and pulling out two mugs. Arguing with Sherlock really wasn't going to get him anywhere.

"Did you recognise the victim?"

John didn't answer immediately; instead, he continued to prepare the cups of tea.

"John." Sherlock's voice was quiet and low, a warning not to mess him about.

"Yes." John said softly, his back to his friend. "Yes, I recognised her."

Behind him, he heard Sherlock begin to chuckle, and with a frown he turned back around, still watching nonplussed as the detective laughed and shook his head.

"Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly.

"God, I've been so stupid." the detective whispered.

"What are you talking about?"

"You." Sherlock's steely eyes bore into the doctor's confused ones, all traces of laughter vanishing in a second. "For the past two days I have been exercising every theory regarding these murder victims in the hopes that I would find a link between them. They didn't have any reason to know each other, and it's not like they were coincidentally in the same place at the same time. But there _is _a link. _You_.

"You knew both Major Williams and Ryan Panes, and at first I was willing to believe that it was a strange coincidence, but now that a third has turned up, and once again you knew them, it is clear that the link is you. There's something you're not telling me, and I want to know."

"Sherlock–"

"No, don't lay any excuses on me; it won't work." Sherlock's voice was stern, but his face was still pale as he gave into exhaustion and sat down on one of the dining chairs. "You need to tell me."

"It'll only put you in more danger."

"When has that ever stopped me? Talk to me John, please." The stern voice had gone now, replaced with a quiet plea.

John sighed, and silently placed the two cups of tea on the table. Sherlock ignored his, choosing instead to place his fingers in a prayer-like position under his chin. John clasped his hands together, looking down at them and refusing to meet his friend's icy gaze.

"It started in Afghanistan." John said quietly. "Me and Nick–"

"Nick and I." Sherlock suddenly interrupted.

"What?"

"Nick and I, not me and Nick."

John passed a hand over his face and sighed. "Look, do you want to know what happened or not?"

"Apologies. Continue."

"Right, so _Nick and I_ worked best out in the field when we were together. He would cover me while I helped injured soldiers, and if it was necessary, I was always able to get him out of trouble, too. We were both very good shots, and I think that was what got us... noticed."

John shifted in his seat a little, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. Sherlock said nothing; instead he began to wonder what it was that his friend had been hiding from him for so long.

"It must have been about a year or so before I got shot, and the same night I collected Major Williams from the pub, when I went into my bunker after speaking to our general. I moved over to my bed, and on top of my pillow was a folded piece of paper. Naturally, I unfolded it, and written on it was the sentence _Come to the canteen at midnight_. It was signed with only the letter 'T'.

"So I waited until midnight – It's always midnight, isn't it? Sorry, uh... yeah, so I waited until midnight, and then when the time came, I went down to the canteen. When I arrived, it was pitch black – which I suppose shouldn't have been surprising, seeing as it was–"

"John, you're babbling." Sherlock interrupted, sharply, impatient to see where this was going.

"Sorry. I switched on the light to the canteen, and sat on one of the back tables, was one man."

"Tigris." Sherlock clarified.

"Yeah. He had his back to me, and didn't move when the lights came on. I moved over to the table and sat down opposite him. Immediately, his eyes were watching me, noting every little thing I did – a bit like you, actually. No, nothing like you, he's nothing like you–"

"John."

"Sorry. We sat in silence for about five minutes, maybe longer, until suddenly he sat a bit straighter and smiled at me. It wasn't a very warm smile, to be honest. A bit eerie, like the villains you see in the movies just before the reveal their evil pl–"

"_John_."

"Sor–"

"_Don't_ apologise." Sherlock sighed, frustrated.

"Right, sorry. Sorry. Oh, God–"

"_Just tell me what happened!_" Sherlock shouted throwing his hands in the air. John shut his mouth abruptly, his eyes downcast.

"John, if you are involved in this, I need to know." the detective said in a quieter voice. "Please, just tell me everything, without getting sidetracked."

John nodded, taking a breath. "He introduced himself as Tigris, but I interrupted him by saying that I knew his real name, so he didn't have to use an alias. Tigris–"

"Why don't you call him by his real name, then, and not that silly nickname?"

John hesitated. "I know it's stupid; I even told him so myself, but I don't want to endanger you more by revealing his true identity."

"For God's sake, John–"

"Just let me tell you what happened, and then we'll discuss his name."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, gesturing for John to continue.

"Tigris explained to me that it was necessary, and he requested – or threatened, more like – that I didn't tell anyone else his name. I agreed, partly because I was more concerned with why he had brought me there in the first place."

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Then he told me that the General had told him I'd found Major Williams telling secrets to a stranger. Tigris congratulated me on reporting it, and then went on to say that something needed to be done about Williams. He told me that he'd already met with Nick, and he'd agreed with Tigris wholeheartedly."

The doctor sighed. "God, Sherlock, at the time I was so angry with Major Williams for going against us that I would've agreed to anything. And Tigris... he fed me these lies, telling me that the major had done a lot worse than what I had seen that night. He convinced me that Major Williams had betrayed us, and it was unforgivable.

"He... proposed that we got rid of him... for good."

Sherlock's face dropped. "_You_ killed him?"

"I wasn't thinking straight. It was just... I don't know, excitement, anger, adrenaline; they all fuelled me to... agree."

"John..." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper.

"There's more to it than that–"

"I don't want to hear excuses." the detective snapped. "What did you do?"

"I killed him, Sherlock." John whispered, head in hands. "God, I hate myself for it, but I did it. And it didn't even stop there."

"The others? Ryan Panes and Tracy Fordes, you killed them too?"

It was barely a nod, but Sherlock still saw it. He felt the blood drain from his face, now that he saw this new side to his flatmate.

"It wasn't just me, though. There was some sort of organisation, headed by Tigris, and they were all assigned... _victims_ to take out. It was usually someone who had done something unforgivable, like Major Williams. For me, I always found out who the next person was by a note, similar to the one I had received when Tigris told me to meet him. I'd open it, and there'd be a single name on it, telling me who was next..."

"Besides Ryan Panes and Tracy Fordes, how many others were there?"

"Four." John murmured. "Daniel Luckhurst, Sophie Donald, Emily Roberts, and Jack Day. Some of them were gamblers or alcoholics who blabbed to others, while the others we found out worked for the... other side."

"John, I..."

"I know, I know. What _I've _done is unforgivable, and I really would understand if you called Lestrade. But–"

"Why did you stop?"

John frowned, caught off guard. "What?"

"You heard me. Why did you stop killing people?"

"I think the clue's in that question, Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock's voice held no room for argument, and it was clear Sherlock was reaching the end of his tether.

The doctor dipped his head. "Because I found out that Tigris was giving me names that no longer concerned anyone in Afghanistan. Ryan Panes, for example, had been sleeping with Tigris's girlfriend. When I realised I was killing others for Tigris's benefit, I left."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, right after I received the name of the next person."

"But you didn't kill them?"

"No, I left, like I said."

"Who was the next victim?"

John frowned again. "Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Humour me." he said coldly.

John gazed at him for a while, clearly deciding whether he should tell or not, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He opened it and drew a torn piece of paper that was folded in half.

Without a sound, John held it out for Sherlock, who snatched it from him and opened it. His heart plummeted at the name.

_ Sherlock Holmes_.


	7. Chapter 7

"Me?" Sherlock asked sharply. "Tigris wanted to kill me?"

"Apparently." John said quietly. "It's not unlikely, if you think about it. Imagine the long list of everyone you've ever pissed off. You must've done something to aggravate him."

"Who's Tigris?"

John slumped, clearly hoping Sherlock wasn't going to ask him that. "Sherlock..."

"Just don't bother, John. Tell me."

"It's not safe for you."

Sherlock laughed, though there was no warmth in it. "I've just realised I've been living with a serial killer, who might possibly have killed me had he not suddenly developed a conscience. You're telling me _now _that it isn't safe for me?"

"Look, it's not like that–"

"Tell me, John. For God's sake, don't you think I deserve to know who's out there hunting me down?"

There was a long silence, where the two of them simply watched one another, until finally John sighed, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Sebastian Moran."

"He's in jail." was Sherlock's immediate response. There was no way Moriarty's right-hand man could have done this.

John blew out a breath. "No he's not."

Sherlock leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I put him there myself." he growled.

"I know, Sherlock. But he's not in prison anymore."

"Then why the hell haven't you told me sooner?" Sherlock was close to shouting, banging his hands against the table and glaring across at John.

"Because I didn't find out Moran was here until last night! And I was hardly going to wake you up, in your battered state, to tell you something that could wait until the morning."

"But could it? Because according to Nick, Moran is acting _now_. And why didn't you say anything when we were hunting him down last year?"

"Because my best friend had just come back from the dead!" John shouted. "Telling you that I had killed people under Moran was at the back of my mind at the time, because I was still getting my head around the fact that you were alive and well, and not six feet under!"

"And what about after all that had blown over?" Sherlock asked, no longer shouting, though he was talking through gritted teeth. "Did it never cross your mind then?"

"Yes, of course it did, but I'd hoped that because Moran was in jail, there wouldn't be any reason to tell you."

"God, John..."

"I know, Sherlock, but there's more to it. Look, I understand if you're going to call Greg, but please, just let me tell you–"

Sherlock rose from the table abruptly and walked into the living room, gathering his coat and slipping on his shoes. John followed him, bemused.

"Sherlock?" he asked tentatively.

"I'll be back later." the detective said frostily, turning to the door.

"Wait, you can't–" John moved forward and held Sherlock's arm to stop him, but the taller man wrenched it out of his grip.

"Don't touch me." he hissed, before walking out, closing the door behind him. It was moments later when he heard the front door shut.

John stayed where he was for a few minutes, staring at the spot where Sherlock had been moments before. He should've stopped Sherlock from going out. It was too dangerous, now that Moran was on the prowl, and _God_, John had made a hash of things. He honestly didn't know whether Sherlock would speak to him again, or just ignore him, or worse: ask him to leave for good. It wouldn't be completely unreasonable of Sherlock to ask that, but John hoped with all his might that the detective wouldn't go down that route.

Numbly, he walked over to the couch and sank down on it. He lay back and twisted so that his back was facing the room. Sherlock just needed time to gather his thoughts, he told himself. He'd be back later. He even said so. Yes, he'd come back. Wouldn't he?

* * *

Four hours had passed until Sherlock returned. By that time, John was beside himself with worry. As soon as he heard the front door open and shut, he was off the sofa and opening the door, listening to Sherlock's slow and heavy footfalls until he reached the landing. The detective carried on forward, and John quickly moved aside to let him in.

"You alright?" he asked as Sherlock took off his coat.

"Fine." Sherlock muttered in reply.

"Sherlock, look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but there are other things I need to tell you. I haven't explained everything–"

"John, I don't want to hear excuses." Sherlock just sounded exhausted, no traces of anger or fury in his voice.

"No, I wasn't going to give any excuses. Listen–"

"I don't care, John. Okay?" Sherlock said, turning to look at John. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." John answered, shutting the door quickly and moving into the room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, for everything. And I mean everything. I'm sorry that I ever agreed to kill Major Williams. I'm sorry I didn't have the guts to stand up to Moran and refuse to kill the others. I'm sorry that when I was sent back to England after being shot I decided to live with you, being aware of the consequences it could have. And I'm especially sorry for the pain it has caused you; knowing that your friend has killed others, working for the right-hand man of Moriarty. I hate myself for it, I really do. _But there's more you need to know_–"

John was cut off abruptly by the sound of approaching sirens. He glanced towards the windows, then back to Sherlock, who was also gazing at the windows, his face hidden from John's.

"You called the police?" John asked quietly, subconsciously backing away towards the kitchen.

"No, I– I–"

John shook his head. "I keep trying to tell you that I haven't told you everything. Look, I just need more time, and then everything will be sorted out, I promise. I can't be arrested right now, I just can't."

Sherlock's lips tightened, clearly deciding what to do. "Go out my window; there's a drainage pipe you can climb down."

A look of momentary relief crossed John's features, before it vanished again. "Will you come with me?" he asked.

Sherlock hesitated, looking between the window and John, and the doctor took that as his answer, his shoulders slumping.

"Fine." he said, in a defeated tone. "I'll see you soon."

"No, John–" But he was already gone, putting on his jacket as he ran through the hallway into Sherlock's bedroom. Moments later Sherlock heard the sound of scraping as a window was lifted, and then the faint rattle of the drain pipe as John climbed down. He quickly moved into his room and over to the window, looking out, but John was nowhere to be seen. With a resigned sigh, Sherlock closed the window and then walked back into the living room, just as there was a knock at the front door.

"It's open." he called down the stairs, and after a few seconds Lestrade was jogging up the stairs alone.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "Why have I just received a call from someone saying they saw John murder Tracy Fordes?"

Sherlock frowned slightly as he settled into his armchair. "I couldn't say, but they are lying. John was with me all last night, remember?"

Lestrade winced. "Yes, I remember, but Miss Forbes was killed six hours before that. So where was John during the day?"

"...At work." Sherlock said, somewhat reluctantly.

Greg sighed. "Where is he now? I have to take him in for questioning."

"I don't know." Sherlock replied aloofly.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"It's the truth."

"Is it, though? You're telling me that John left you alone, even though you're still recovering from last night?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, don't make this harder than it already is."

Before the detective had a chance to reply, there was a sharp tap at the door and Mycroft Holmes walked in, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snapped. "I'm a little preoccupied at the minute."

"As I am aware." Mycroft answered. "How goes the hunt for Doctor Watson? Did you check Harewood Avenue?"

"_What_?" Greg exclaimed. "He's running?" When no one answered, he swore.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

"Before you call for reinforcements, Detective Inspector, I suggest you listen to the full story."

"I don't even know what happened in the first place." he muttered, falling into John's chair, having moved it back to its original place.

"All the more reason to listen." Mycroft said, smiling thinly as he sat down on the couch. "Sherlock? Why don't you fill him in?"

Sherlock looked across at Greg, and sighed before finally telling the inspector everything John had told him earlier. He tried to avoid looking at Greg's face, which was slowly dropping until it held a look of disbelief and disappointment.

Fifteen minutes later and the tale had been told, leaving Greg with his head in his hands.

"Bloody hell." he whispered. "I can't believe it. I can't believe _he'd _do something like this. Are you sure?" he glanced up at Sherlock with a look of hope, though that was quickly fading.

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock said solemnly.

In the corner, Mycroft cleared his throat. "He didn't tell you everything, Sherlock." he said quietly, a sorrowful look on his face.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock said sharply, snapping his head across to his brother.

"I mean, there is more to that story than he told you, and from what I understand, he did try to tell you, but I'm afraid your untimely arrival," he nodded at Lestrade, "prevented him from doing so."

"And you know what it is he was trying to say?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"I do." Mycroft confirmed.

"Well?" Both Greg and Sherlock asked at the same time.

"It's a long story." Mycroft warned.

"Just get on with it, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped.

"Alright. Well, six years ago, I had been doing the job I do now for just a year, when I received information telling me that the number of suicides occurring in Afghanistan was increasing. At first, I did not see how this was relevant to my work, so I brushed it off. But then a general I knew called Matthew Bush killed himself, and I didn't believe it for a second. I had known the man throughout my university life, and he always had dreams of being in the army. He was happy at home, and at the time of his death I knew his wife was expecting children. There wasn't any reason I could see that explained Matthew's suicide.

"So, I got someone to look into it. And then two months later, the man I had sent to investigate came back telling me that Colonel Sebastian Moran was planning and executing the murders. This was the first I had heard of him, but I knew then that the so-called suicides had to stop, without creating too much attention. I ordered for a list of all the soldiers in Camp Bastion to be presented to me, ensuring that the minimum number of people knew about it, of course, and after perusing each soldier's file, I picked one of them to be my spy, if you will. I'll give you three guesses as to who I picked." Mycroft said, smiling softly.

"John." Sherlock whispered, a look of utter shock crossing his face at Mycroft's nod.

* * *

It took John twenty five minutes to get to Putney and find the block of flats where Nick was staying. He had gone to the trouble of using back alleys and places where he knew Mycroft's cameras weren't watching – minus one mistake down Harewood Avenue. He remembered an evening where Sherlock, out of boredom, had sat him down and gone over every street in London, telling him where the CCTV cameras were and weren't. It had been four hours of non-stop drivel, and at the time John really hadn't been in the mood for it, but for some strange reason the information had remained engraved in his head, and he could now tell anyone where to go if they were trying to hide, which was perfect for the situation he was in at the moment.

Really, he couldn't have made things worse with Sherlock if he tried. He had been completely unorganised in telling the detective his story, and he didn't even get to tell him what he was desperate to get across most.

And as if that hadn't dampened John's spirits, the hesitation Sherlock displayed when he asked the younger man to come with him had hurt like a slap in the face. He had been half inclined to tell Sherlock of a similar night four years ago, when John had willingly become a fugitive with him, but he knew that now really wasn't the time for bitterness. He needed to think clearly, and plan what needed to be done next. First things first, he had to speak to Nick.

He knocked firmly on the front door, but didn't wait for a response; instead he pushed it open and trotted up the narrow staircase and into the dingy flat. Memories of when he once lived in a place strikingly familiar to this struck him, but he pushed it aside and opted to focus on the soldier standing opposite him in front of the window.

"Nick, will you please tell me where Moran is, because there is something that we really need to talk about." he growled, waiting for Nick to turn around and answer him.

"Nick?" he prompted. "Come on, I haven't got time for this."

He heard the soldier sigh and then bow his head, looking at something in his hand.

"Seriously, Nick, the police – what the hell are you doing?"

John could only watch in utter astonishment as Nick slowly turned until he was looking at him, and then he raised a handgun so that it was aimed directly at the army doctor's head.


	8. Chapter 8

"I picked John purely based on his record; I did not know him beforehand." Mycroft said, looking across from Sherlock to Greg as both detectives stared at him with expressions of surprise.

"I had someone quickly arrange a phone call with him, and at the same time he answered I was told that he had found and brought home a drunk Major Williams, and that also the major had been telling secrets. I knew then that Moran would try to reach him, and I had to act fast, so I told John that a man named Sebastian Moran - who he quickly informed me he already knew – had been murdering other soldiers by making it appear as though they had committed suicide; whether they had taken too many pills or hanged themselves, the methods varied, but they always led back to Moran. I told him that Moran would most likely get in contact, and when he did, I needed John to tell me what was said.

"Understandably, John was hesitant to comply with me, and demanded a name before he took into consideration any offer I made. Somewhat reluctantly, I gave him mine–"

"You _told him your name_?" Sherlock interrupted, astonished. "But you never give away your identity, not to anyone."

Mycroft shrugged. "I am aware, but I knew that John wasn't going to do anything unless I met him halfway, and I could already tell that this was a man who, if I earned his trust, would remain completely loyal to me. So I told him, though we never met in person. Eventually, he agreed to hear me out, and I explained what it was I intended to do."

"And that was?" Greg prompted. Mycroft waved him away with irritation.

"I'm getting to it, just be patient. I told John that it would be unwise to confront Moran outright when they met, because that would only lead to investigations from other parties, which was the last thing we needed. However, I made it clear that there needed to be a way to dupe Moran into thinking John was on his side, and was willing to kill Major Williams. And that was when John suggested we fake Williams' death."

* * *

"Nick," John breathed. "What's going on?"

The hand that was holding the gun wavered. "I'm sorry, John, but I have to." Nick's voice was firm, but John could tell the soldier was anxious.

"No, you don't. Just..." But Nick was shaking his head, cutting him off.

"You don't understand, John. You know too much."

"I've known too much for the past six years!" John argued, trying his best not to raise his voice, should it aggravate Nick.

"I know, but Moran wants you out of the way." he said.

"So what you said before, about you wanting to warn me of Moran, that was just a lie?"

"Yes." Nick said.

"And, what, you organised that fight at the pub, did you?" John felt anger bubble up inside him, quickly replacing the sense of betrayal.

Nick nodded. "When Sherlock got the information from that Detective Inspector bloke, saying there was a pub where Panes used to go, I told Moran, and he arranged for some men to be there, ready to beat Sherlock up."

"And kill him?"

"Yeah, and to kill him."

"But then Greg arrived..."

"Yeah, he arrived and broke everything up. I had no choice but to help him get Sherlock back to Baker Street."

"And that's why there wasn't a scratch on you." John clarified. "You really were watching from the side-lines, because you had gestured for the men to come over and attack Sherlock, right?"

"Yeah, right." Nick confessed.

"So what else have you lied about? Besides this flat and the pub. I suppose all those times you were out visiting friends and family, or Ellen, you were really coinciding with Moran?"

"Most of the time, yeah."

John shook his head in disbelief, staring Nick straight in the eye and ignoring the gun pointed at his head.

Suddenly a thought came to him. "And you took the case file." he murmured. "The one Mycroft had left for Sherlock, the one on you."

"Yeah, that was a nice surprise; finding a big brown file with my name written on it. I had to take it before Sherlock read it and found out what I'd – what _we'd_ – done."

"But I thought you left when I did?" John asked. "You were very confident you wouldn't kill again all those years ago when I told you we were murdering people for Moran's benefit."

"I wish I could have left, John, but Moran has me wrapped around his finger. I'd been sent back here because Moran found out that every person you ever 'killed' was still alive."

"But he already knew Sherlock was still alive." John argued. "He's known for a while."

"Yeah, I know, but he wasn't aware that the others were still living and breathing."

"So did you kill them, too? Years later, when they've built up a new life and done nothing wrong, you went around shooting them in the head. Is that what you've been doing, as well?" John accused, unsure whether to be shocked or angry.

"What? No, I haven't killed anyone here in England. That was Moran himself. I was only here to report back to him, and tell him whether or not your victims were alive. All I did was plant the bodies where Moran told me to."

"But you can't have done that all this week? You 'found' Major Williams' body the day after you arrived at Baker Street. How did Moran find the others so quickly?"

"I'd been here two weeks before we met in that café, chasing down everyone who should've been killed and giving their names back to Moran. He then instructed me to meet you and persuade you to let me stay with you, so that I could monitor Sherlock."

* * *

"John came up with the idea?" Sherlock asked, "But I thought he was angry enough with Major Williams that he wanted to kill him?"

"He was furious, Sherlock. I could hear his rage down the phone when he told me what the major had done. But I don't think he ever wanted to kill him. He's far too compassionate for that. So John said it would be best that we faked Major Williams' death. I thought it was a clever idea and agreed with him, and we were only left with deciding the method of suicide."

"Cutting the left wrist?" Sherlock asked with a frown, glancing across to Greg and noticing that the DI looked just as confused as he felt.

"Indeed. John explained that if he cut one of the major's wrists, the wound would bleed more than necessary, and it would appear that a vein had been cut, seeing as John wasn't going to actually aim for a vein, saying it was too risky. He would only cut the one wrist for safety, because it would still be very dangerous if both wrists were bleeding; the blood loss would be too great.

"I asked if he had the equipment necessary to carry out the procedure, and he confirmed that he did. He also said that he had an antiarrhythmic drug which was usually used to lower heart rates for people with irregular heartbeats or a fast heart rate. He said that as long as he was nearby when the drug was taking effect, he'd be able to keep the Major safe."

"But why use the drug in the first place?" Greg asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obvious," he said. "To give the appearance of death. If anyone were to take his pulse, they wouldn't find anything unless they were completely focused and remained there for a while. I assume John would be there to prevent anyone from taking his pulse?"

"Correct. Or if they did, John would make sure it was only for a short time, before he prised them off the major's body." Sherlock had a sudden memory of a time four years ago, when he'd jumped off St. Bart's, and as he was lying there, he'd felt John's calloused fingers wrap around his wrist. It had only been for a moment, and then other people had moved the doctor out of the way. It had been necessary, but it had still been painful to hear John's broken _he's my friend_.

Sherlock blinked away the memory, and focussed again on what his brother was saying.

Mycroft had seemed to notice the distance in Sherlock's eyes, but he didn't comment on it. "From what John had told me, after he met with Moran and agreed to kill Major Williams, he headed straight for the major's office and explained what was going to happen. He told Williams that people wanted him dead and John wanted to fake his death to ensure his safety.

"The major agreed and John very carefully cut a line along Williams' left wrist. The report I received told me that the wound started bleeding immediately, and John quickly administered the drug. John also gave him a sedative, to guarantee he'd remain unconscious, and then left the office.

"And this is where things went pear-shaped." Mycroft continued. "The initial idea had been that John would wait ten minutes before going to find Major Williams, but it had barely been five before Nick had found John, telling him the major was dead. Naturally, John rushed with him to the scene, and he checked his pulse, only to find that if one waited long enough, it could be detected. Neither I nor John knew how long Nick had stopped to check for a pulse, so we had no way of knowing whether Nick was aware Williams was still alive.

"But John continued the act, and soon he and some men who had been working for me originally – and were aware of what was going on – got the major away from others. John then administered yet another drug – which I had been hesitant about, but he had assured me was completely safe – which brought Williams out of unconsciousness and brought his heart rate back to normal.

"This was where I stepped in. I arranged transport back to England for Williams, and once there he was given a whole new life, complete under a new identity."

"Did his family know?" Greg asked.

"Major Williams had no family, which was both a blessing and a curse for him, I would imagine, as he didn't have to hide from anyone, but he also didn't have anyone to check on. If he had had family, then he would've been forced to stay away from them, for their own safety." Mycroft said gently.

"And this happened for every victim John ever had?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes." Mycroft confirmed. "John never killed anyone he was directed to by Moran."

* * *

"I don't believe this." John muttered. "How could you, Nick? You're my best mate."

Nick shook his head. "I'm sorry, John, but this has to be done."

"No it doesn't, Nick. We can sort this–"

"There's nothing _to _sort, John!" Nick exclaimed. "Don't you see? Don't you see the mess you've made?"

"Why are you doing this?" John asked quietly, still unable to comprehend it. "Why are you working with Moran?"

"Because it's what I chose to do. He and I both know you need to be stopped, and I volunteered to do it."

"That's a lie if I ever saw one, Nick." John growled. "While we were in Afghanistan, you were always moaning how you hated him so much–"

"I don't hate him." Nick said, and John could detect a trace of panic in his tone as the gun in his grip shook ever so slightly.

"Nick, please, tell me what's going on. Moran must have done something to get you to comply. What's happened?"

Nick bowed his head, and the handgun in his grip lowered a little bit. He shook his head quickly.

"Nick..."

"He's got Rachel." It was barely a whisper, but John's heart still plummeted at the mention of the soldier's daughter, his goddaughter.

"What?" he asked, not wanting to believe it.

"I said he's got Rachel." Nick's voice was a little more firm, and looked up at John with pain-filled eyes, from both losing his daughter and with what he had to do next.

"You don't have to do this, though." John said, his voice calm. "We can find her, I'll call Mycroft–"

"No!" Nick exclaimed, his eyes wide. "You can't call him, he won't do anything."

"Of course he will, he–"

"Don't kid yourself, John." Nick said, laugh humourlessly. "Moran arranged for his brother to be killed, for God's sake, and I was in on it."

"Then let me call Sherlock, at least. He can find her, I know he can."

Nick shook his head. "Moran has hidden her, John, and from what I've been told it took Sherlock three years to find _him_."

"That was different–"

"Yeah, that time Sherlock was meant to be _dead_!" Nick shouted, fury suddenly reigning in his eyes. "Because for some, strange reason, he wasn't already! And nor was anyone else you were supposed to have killed! This is _your _fault, John! It's your fault that Rachel's gone; it's your fault that all this has happened!"

"I'm sorry, Nick, I couldn't have known–"

"That doesn't change anything, John." Nick said, raising the gun back to John's head. "This needs to be done. I'll get Rachel back after this; I'll be allowed to see her, and she matters more to me than anything else."

"I know," John said softly. "And I'm so sorry."

"Me too." Nick murmured, cocking the gun. "It really was good to see you again."

John closed his eyes, accepting fate. "Tell Ellen I'm sorry, too. She shouldn't have gone through that." he muttered.

"I will." Nick's voice was quiet, subdued.

"And Sherlock." John added quickly, eyes still closed. "I'm truly sorry for what I've done to him. Could you tell him? You know, if you see him before Moran does?"

There was a choked laugh from where Nick was stood. "Of course." he croaked.

Seconds passed, before there was a deafening gunshot.

John peeled open an eye, confused as to why he'd felt nothing. And that was when he saw Nick laying on the floor, eyes closed and a bullet through his chest.

"No..." John whispered, and he moved forward to his friend, but he was suddenly frozen to the spot by a voice behind him.

"God, that was tedious. How about a bit of fun now, Johnny?"

Before he had a chance to turn around, something solid hit him squarely around the head, and he crumpled to the ground without a word.


	9. Chapter 9

"I'm sorry, but I've got to get people out there looking for John, if not to arrest him then for his own safety, at least." Greg Lestrade got up from his chair and marched out the door, the stairs creaking under his weight as he opened the front door and spoke to the officers outside.

"Fine, go ahead." Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly, waving the DI away.

"He's already gone, Sherlock." Mycroft said from the couch, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Hmm? Oh." Sherlock blinked and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I imagine this is a lot to take in." his brother supplied helpfully, though the amusement had now been replaced with concern.

"Yes, it is." Sherlock murmured. "Why didn't he tell me he didn't actually kill anyone?"

"I think he did try to tell you, at the end." Mycroft said.

"Yes, but why at the end? Why not begin his story with _I didn't kill them, but_..., and then add in the parts where he faked everyone's suicide?"

"Perhaps it was to test your loyalty." the elder Holmes said. "He knew what he was about to say would have a big impact on you, so he wanted to know whether you'd stop to listen to the full story, or react as soon as you heard he'd killed someone. Or perhaps it was because the story would make more sense with the information added at the end."

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted.

"Nor do I."

"But he sounded so sincere." the detective continued. "When he told me he'd supposedly killed Major Williams, he sounded genuinely sorry."

"He's a better actor than you give him credit for." Mycroft said. "But maybe he was sorry, because in a way he _had_ killed the major." At Sherlock's sharp look, Mycroft elaborated.

"Major Williams started a new life," he said. "And this meant he would lose his army rank, as well as all contact with his family."

"You said he didn't have any family."

"But John didn't know that. He still doesn't. I refused to let him get into contact with those he saved, for both their own good."

Sherlock remained silent, thinking over this information.

"Though what I don't understand," Mycroft said, "Is why you didn't run with him, when DI Lestrade arrived. Why the hesitation? Surely you remember the night similar to this, four years ago?"

"Of course I do, and it wasn't hesitation." Sherlock said quietly. "When I looked to the window, what I was actually doing was trying to work out from which direction Lestrade was coming, so that we could go a different direction. But John must have misinterpreted it, and assumed I wouldn't go with him now that I thought he was a serial killer. But I would have gone with him." he added regretfully.

"I see." Mycroft said softly. "It is definitely unfortunate."

"And why did you never tell me? Why did you never tell me what John had done? Or that you already knew him?"

"I did not tell you what happened in Afghanistan because I felt it was not my place to tell you–"

"When has that ever stopped you?"

"And I also did not want to put you in unnecessary danger – a point on which John agreed with me. If you knew, there was always the chance it could slip out in a conversation, and the news would eventually get back to Moran."

"Why would I tell anyone?"

"I'm not saying you would, but you don't exactly have a filter, do you?"

"I'm assuming you didn't take into account Moriarty, then?"

"No," Mycroft confirmed, "James Moriarty was the last person I expected Colonel Moran to work with. So when Moriarty set his sights on you, both John and I knew Moran would know you were alive."

"Why did you let John stay with me, though, if you thought he'd put me in danger?"

"Because I knew that John would be able to protect you. Back then you were reckless, and you needed someone to keep you in check."

"How did you find out I was a victim?"

"John told me, of course, the minute he received the note with your name on it. He must have guessed you were my brother, and rather than meeting you to fake your death, we decided to just have John claim you were dead, seeing as nobody had any reason to suspect him."

"So our meeting wasn't a coincidence, then?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Mycroft said softly. "I got in contact with Mr. Stamford, and told him it was imperative the two of you met. I think he waited in that park for two days before John limped past."

"But what about John's blog? There aren't many other Sherlock Holmes' I know of that John could be mistaken to be living with."

Mycroft sighed. "There was never any reason for Moran to look for John after Afghanistan, because he was under the impression that John was dead."

"Why would Moran think John was dead?" Sherlock asked with a frown, wondering if there was something else John hadn't told him.

"Because he shot him."

* * *

Consciousness came back to John very slowly, and when it did come back he awoke with a low groan. His head was pounding painfully and he tried to reach for it, but he soon found his hands were tied. As awareness returned to him fully, he was able to work out that he was sat in a wooden chair, which his hands – though not his legs – were tied tightly around, behind John's back. As well as that, it soon became apparent he was blindfolded, hence the reason he couldn't see anything.

"Finally awake, Doctor?" a sudden voice somewhere in front of him said, causing him to jump.

There was a throaty chuckle. "Scare ya? Good."

John cleared his throat. "What do you want, Moran?" he croaked, turning his head towards the voice.

Colonel Moran chuckled again. "Glad that hit to the head didn't dent your memory, at least."

"I'm not going to ask again." John growled.

"Oh? And why should I care if you don't? What reason do I have for answering to you?"

John said nothing.

"That's what I thought." He could practically _hear_ Moran's smug smile, and he shifted slightly.

"Where's Nick?" he asked instead, going for a different approach.

"He's dead." Moran said in a flat tone.

John bit back the angry retort. "That wasn't my question." he snarled.

"Hit a nerve there, did I Johnny?" Moran mocked. "Well, if you really want to know, he's on your right hand side, in the kitchen."

"Where are we?" John asked, fighting down the image of Nick sprawled against the kitchen tiles in a foreign building.

"What makes you think we're not still in Mr. Harper's flat?" Colonel Moran asked, sounding almost genuinely interested.

"Because that is the first place the police will think to look for me." John said, listening to the sound of the colonel's footsteps sounding back and forth in front of the chair he was sat in.

"Oh yes, I forgot you were a fugitive. Well, it's a good thing we're actually somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

John sighed in frustration, until a sudden idea came to him, and he stretched his arm behind him to try and reach his phone, which was resting in his back pocket.

"Why did you kill Nick?" he asked quietly.

"Ah, I was wondering when you were going to ask me that. I was beginning to think you didn't care about him."

"Why did you do it?" he ground out between gritted teeth.

When Moran spoke next, he was whispering in John's ear. "Because he was boring me." he said in a low voice, and John flinched, causing Moran to chuckle again.

"You were in the room when Nick was about to kill me?" John asked.

He heard the colonel walk away. "Of course I was. I had to make sure he got the job done."

"Then why haven't you killed me?" the doctor asked, sliding his phone out from his pocket and unlocking it.

"Because I wanted to chat. And I also needed an excuse to shoot Mr. Harper. His hesitation was good enough."

"He didn't hesitate." John answered, the phone keys making quiet _clicks_ as he typed.

"You had your eyes closed, you wouldn't know."

"What reason did you have for killing him?"

"Like he told you that you knew too much, he also knew too much, and therefore had to be removed."

"But you promised him he'd see his daughter." Anger began to bubble in his stomach, as he focused both on the conversation and also his phone.

"No, I promised that I'd let his daughter go, not that he'd see her again. Is that what he thought? Honestly, sometimes I don't know how he gets by, what with that brain of his. It certainly wasn't intelligence that got him through the war, that's for certain."

"No, it was bravery." John growled.

"Well, that's _your_ opinion, isn't it Johnny?" Moran sniffed.

"Don't call me Johnny."

"Why not?" Moran said in an innocent tone. "Does it remind you of a friend of mine? Did he used to scare ya?" The colonel laughed after speaking, and he ruffled John's hair. The doctor wrenched his head away, before taking a breath, at the same time he slipped his phone back in his pocket.

"He used to, yes. But he doesn't anymore because he's _dead_. Six feet under nowadays. Boy that must've hurt you." John muttered, changing tactics. He heard Moran's laugh die down, and the footsteps paused. John continued, all the while trying to fight down a smug smile. _Gotcha_.

"I bet his death was the last thing you were expecting. He didn't tell you anything, did he? Didn't say what he was planning next, what he was going to do with Sherlock. All he probably said was _shoot his _pet–" John spat the word out, "– _unless Sherlock jumps from that rooftop_. Did you think the two of you would go out for drinks, once the day was done?" John tried not to compare himself with Moran during the Reichenbach case, the two of the waiting for their genius friends to finish the game, one way or another.

"Shut up." Moran growled.

"Were you ready to shower Jimmy with praise, tell him how brilliant he was?" John mocked.

"I said shut the hell up." the colonel snarled.

"And maybe – just maybe – he'd return a few compliments, and tell you how well done you would've done the job if you had to shoot me. Because you missed the first time, didn't you? And I'm sure that would have fuelled you to get the job done thoroughly, earning Jim's respect as well.

"But no. Instead, he put a bullet through his head and didn't even say goodbye. Because you were _nothing_ to him. Absolutely nothing. His last dying thought was most likely _I hope I don't get blood on this suit_, and not even, _Hmm, it's a shame I didn't tell Sebby to get the shopping._"

With a roar, Moran jumped forward and ripped John's blindfold off, blinding the doctor momentarily. The colonel used that time to savagely cut through the ropes with a penknife, before he roughly threw John to the floor.

"Ooh, hit a nerve there, did I Sebby?" John said, throwing the sniper's previous words at him. "You really need to learn to hide those emotions of yours. Someone could use them against you."

Moran practically leapt on him, throwing punches wherever he could. One struck John's cheek, but the doctor barely noticed; instead, he reversed their positions so that he was trapping the colonel, and swiftly avoided the swinging arms.

"How long did it take you to get over him? You probably didn't even have that long to grieve, because then Sherlock was after you, which shows just how much better he is than your dear Jim. He was so good he evaded _death_. I bet you're yearning to know how he did it, how he came to beat Jim. Perhaps even a part of you hopes that Moriarty is actually alive, but then, why hasn't he gotten in touch with you?"

Moran let out another roar and managed to throw John off him, causing the doctor to crash into the bookshelf in the corner, stunning him as a few books fell down around him. Moran took that as an opportunity to move forward, reach for his penknife, and brutally slash John's left wrist, the one nearest to the colonel.

John gasped in pain and instantly clamped a hand over his wrist, trying to prevent the blood that was running through his fingers to go any further.

Moran, breathing heavily, got to his feet, brushing himself down. "There was something I forgot to mention." he said. "Your death is going to look like a suicide. I'm sure you can appreciate the irony."

"The room's... messy. Won't look like... a suicide." John panted, his chest heaving.

"I've got time to clear up, don't worry."

"M'left handed... won't make sense." he slurred.

"To be honest, I really don't care. Oh, are you feeling short of breath already? That'll be the sedative I gave you when you were unconscious."

"Sedative?" John asked, blinking hard.

"Well, more like poison. It's supposed to look like the sedative you used on the people you were meant to kill. Yes, I know about that, too.

"There's no point in using a sedative on you, seeing as I want you dead, so poison is the obvious choice. Add that to the blood loss, I'd say you've got about forty-five minutes before your heart stops." As he spoke, Moran picked up the books near John and placed them back on the shelf. He also collected the chair and put it next to the desk that was on the opposite wall to the one the bookshelf that supported John was.

Now that the blindfold was gone, John was able to look around, and he noted with mild surprise that he was in his old army flat, where he'd stayed before meeting Sherlock. And to his right, a few metres down, Nick was slumped against the kitchen unit, unconscious. His shirt was drenched in blood, and his face was as white as a sheet.

"Well, Sherlock should be arriving soon. I'd better go downstairs and await his arrival." Moran smiled down at him.

"How would he know?" John muttered.

"You told him."

"I didn't know where... we are."

"No, but don't think I didn't notice you were using your phone while we spoke." he said, stepping forwards and shoving John aside so that he could reach the doctor's back pockets. He pulled out the phone and waved it in John's face, before turning and throwing it onto the small camp bed on the opposite side of the room. "I'll be expecting his arrival in about... half an hour, do you think?" With that, Moran moved out the room and downstairs, locking the door shut and leaving John alone.

"Nick..." he breathed, coughing slightly. "Nick, wake up..." His voice was barely a whisper, so even if Nick was able to wake, he wouldn't have heard John.

_ Sherlock, I need to warn Sherlock_. With a sense of urgency, though it was slowed by John's sluggishness, the doctor's gaze fell upon the bed, which at the moment seemed too far away to reach.

_ No, focus, Goddammit. Need to warn him, keep him away_. He forced himself to push forward, crawling wobbly across the floor and wincing whenever his left hand was put under pressure. The blood was cascading down his wrist and onto his hand, but he gave it no thought. His vision was swaying like he was on a ship, and it was also blurring strongly every so often, something which naturally served to worry John.

When he was about halfway across the room, his left arm suddenly buckled, and his head struck the wooden floor as he fell down, making the headache that had been lingering harmlessly at the back of his mind swoop forward and envelop his senses. He felt his eyes drifting shut, and in a last act of desperation, he clasped his right hand over his wrist, though the grip was far too weak to do any good. Despite fighting valiantly to keep his eyes open, they were closing seconds later, leaving John to fall into a dark unconsciousness, with one phrase bouncing around his head.

_ Please, God, let him live..._

* * *

"He _what_?

"You heard me. When John told Moran he didn't want to work for him anymore, the colonel would have been worried John would blab to someone about what he'd done in Afghanistan. Therefore, when John was out in the field one day, Moran set up his sniper and shot him squarely through the shoulder. No one was around, so Moran must have assumed John would bleed out alone, and even if someone reached him, it would be too late. He scarpered before he had the chance to see if anyone would turn up."

"And did anyone turn up? Who saved him?" Greg was standing in the doorway, listening to the conversation intently.

"Sherlock knows the answer to that one already." Mycroft looked across at him expectantly.

"Nicholas Harper." the detective muttered.

"But I thought Nick was in on it with Moran? He didn't fake anyone's death, did he?"

"No, he went around killing the people Moran told him too. But – again, this was in John's report, so some parts I am assuming happened – Mr. Harper saw Moran shoot John, and decided then and there that he wasn't going to be a part of it. When the Colonel left, Nicholas hurried over to John, and carried him over his shoulder back to their base, where the doctor was attended to by other medics."

"So if Nick left, why wasn't he killed too, like John was supposed to be?" Greg asked.

Sherlock answered just as Mycroft looked down at his phone, having received a text. "Because Moran knew Nick wasn't as strong as John, so therefore he could threaten Nick to keep working for him."

"He threatened Nick? With what?"

"I don't know, telling him John would be harmed, or his daughter possibly. Either way, Nick had no choice but to stay with Moran."

Mycroft cleared his throat, interrupting the conversation. "There is something else you should know," he said. "A few hours before you, Inspector, brought Sherlock home from the pub yesterday, John caught me here trying to place a tracking device in Mr. Harper's bag. Then, when you two arrived, he took the tracker from me and placed it in Nick's shoe."

"So?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"_So_, I have just received this message from John. Notice the spelling mistakes, which the doctor never tends to make. Surely that speaks more about the danger he's in than the message itself." He held out the phone, and Sherlock snatched it off him to read it, Greg looking at it over his shoulder.

_ Turm on tracker. Me and Nixk taaken by Moram – JW_

"Nick and I." Sherlock muttered as he quickly threw the phone back to Mycroft and reached for his coat, trying desperately not to worry or think about what Moran had done to his friend. "What's the address?"


	10. Chapter 10

It took Sherlock and Greg twenty minutes to reach the block of flats in Putney. Mycroft had opted to remain at Baker Street, where he could inform Mrs. Hudson of what had happened when she returned from her visit to her sister, and then either stay with the landlady or arrange for someone to wait there instead, just in case.

Greg had barely stopped the car before Sherlock had leapt out and raced towards the flat he knew John used to live in. Throwing open the front door, he cast a quick eye around the area, and then he was racing up the stairs and banging fervently against the door to John's dingy flat. He rattled the handle furiously, but it wouldn't give, and when he pounded upon the door to gain attention, no one answered.

"John! Are you in there? John!" he shouted, pressing his ear close to the wood to try and hear something, _anything_, but no sound was made.

Lestrade appeared moments later, and looked at Sherlock worriedly. "Do you think he's in there?" he asked.

"Of course he is." Sherlock snapped. "Why would the door be locked otherwise?"

"Well, if someone lives here–"

"No, no one lives here; there's too much dust about the place. And besides, Moran was here before, so why else would he lock the door unless he wanted to keep John there?" Having finished speaking, he once again pounded against the wood, hoping that it might possibly break the structure, but nothing gave.

Greg joined in soon after, banging his fists and shouting for John's attention. They both fell silent and pressed their ears to the door, eager to catch the faintest sound.

Then there was a muffled cough.

"Help me break it down!" Sherlock commanded as he took a step back and directed a foot at the door. Greg helped immediately, also using all his power to break the strong wood. It took them a few tries, but eventually, the structure snapped almost in half.

Sherlock leapt over the door effortlessly and ran straight to John, who was lying, barely conscious, beneath the far window. At the last minute, Sherlock remembered Moran had been here, and he quickly stepped over the doctor to scan the streets outside the flat, but there was no sign of the sniper.

Not wanting to waste time, the detective spun and dropped down to his knees next to John. His eyes fell upon the doctor's left wrist, which was bleeding profusely, and he swore quietly.

"Jesus Christ..." He heard Greg mutter, and he looked up as he unwound his scarf to see the DI crouching opposite Nick, who the detective had only just realised was here. The soldier was incredibly pale, and Sherlock knew with a sinking feeling that he would probably not make it out of this room alive, if he wasn't already dead.

"Lestrade, call an ambulance." he directed whilst he quickly tied his scarf tightly around John's left wrist, ensuring the deep slash was covered.

"On it." Greg said. "I'll – er – do you want me to wait here? Or go downstairs to wait for the ambulance?"

"Go downstairs, I'll be fine up here with John." he replied, his eyes never leaving the doctor as he wrapped his arms around the small figure, supporting his head.

"Okay." With one last regretful glance at Nick, Greg made his way downstairs, closing the door behind him to give the detective some privacy.

"John, John can you hear me?" he asked, lightly tapping him on the cheek.

"Come on, don't do this. Wake up, John, come on."

John coughed suddenly, and groaned slightly, twisting his head into Sherlock's chest.

"Hey," Sherlock encouraged. "Open your eyes, John, please."

Slowly, the doctor's eyes cracked open, and those pain-filled hazel orbs gazed up at him, a faint frown on his face.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked with a weak smile, relief coursing through him, even though he knew it was a stupid question given the situation.

"Yeah," John coughed again. "M'fine."

"Good..." Sherlock smiled, trying not to wince as the one cough soon turned into a number of coughs, each one rattling the doctor's body.

"Sherlock..." John whispered, his eyes struggling to remain open. "Have to tell you..."

"Shh, it's alright, the ambulance is coming."

"N-no, have to tell you... M-Moran..."

"I know, John, I know."

"N-no, he's... he's..."

"Don't speak, it's okay." Sherlock hushed him, keeping one hand against the doctor's cheek as the other arm cradled his head.

John sighed, but didn't say anything. His eyes continued to droop, and Sherlock's thumb rubbed his cheekbone soothingly.

"Eyes on me, John, come on."

"Sh-Sherlock..." he whispered again.

"I'm here, John, I've got you. Stay awake, please."

"Need to... to say..." His eyelids fluttered.

"John? What is it? C'mon, tell me." Sherlock said desperately, trying to keep John talking.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." he murmured, his right hand fisting into Sherlock's coat in an act to make the detective listen.

Sherlock shook his head, blinking furiously. "No, you don't need to say sorry, don't be sorry–"

"...You're my best friend..." John whispered, and once again his eyes fought to stay open. "...would never hurt... you."

The detective felt a lump in his throat, and he nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I know, and I've never doubted you. I should be apologising, not you."

"S'not your fault, Sh-Sher..." the doctor coughed again, and he groaned, his forehead creased in pain.

"Shh, John, don't say anything. It's okay." He found he kept telling John it'd be okay, and a small voice in the back of his mind wondered whether he really was reassuring John, or actually himself.

"John? John, open your eyes." Sherlock shook the arm supporting John slightly, but the doctor merely burrowed his head further into the detective's chest.

"S'nice..." he breathed, eyes remaining closed.

"No, it's not, your head is uncomfortable. Remove it." he ordered, but John ignored him.

"You'll b-be fine... Sh-Sherlock..."

"Don't do this." Sherlock whispered, "You're going to be okay, the ambulance is on its way."

"...too late..." It was harder and harder to hear John, but Sherlock still managed to pick it up. He shook his head defiantly.

"No, please John, stay awake."

"... My best friend..." the doctor whispered, before his eyes drifted shut and he fell limp in Sherlock's arms, his head lolling backwards.

"No..." Sherlock muttered, his heart pounding frantically. "John, open your eyes. Stay with me, please." He pressed two fingers against John's carotid artery, and when he felt a rapidly declining pulse, he fought to keep back burning tears. One managed to escape, however, and it trickled down his face and continued its path until it dropped and landed on John's cheek.

Shaking fingers wiped it away slowly, and Sherlock let his hand linger there for a moment longer, his thumb running across John's cheekbone softly.

"John..." he whispered, praying that the stuttering rise and fall of the doctor's chest would not cease any time soon. _Where was that bloody ambulance?_

"Well, isn't this touching?" A snide voice remarked from the doorway, and Sherlock's head snapped up to see Colonel Sebastian Moran stood there, though what caused the detective's eyes to narrow was Greg Lestrade, who Moran had in an arm lock with a thin blade pressed against the DI's throat.

"I shouldn't have to warn you, but if you try anything clever, the Inspector here is gonna have a nice long slash decorating his throat, a bit like the decoration on your little pet's wrist, though obviously bigger."

Sherlock remained impassive, but at the mention of John, his grip on the doctor tightened, shifting him closer. He looked at Greg, who's normally firm eyes had softened at the sight of the emotionless detective clutching his lifeless friend to him, with a tear-stained track on his face. Of course, the emotionless part was entirely wrong. Greg met his gaze, and the DI tried to smile reassuringly, though he feared it wavered.

"Why John?" he jumped straight to the question, not wanting to waste time chatting when John's life was hanging in the balance.

"Two birds with one stone, you know? I get rid of the people who knew too much," He nodded at John and Nick, "and also destroy you in the process."

"You're not going to kill me?"

Moran laughed. "Of course I'm going to kill you. You didn't think you were getting out alive, did you? No, I wanted to tear your heart to shreds before I finish it."

"Why did you start it? The little organisation you had going on in Afghanistan?"

"You mean why did I have all those people killed? Because I was told to. Extra Brownie points if you can guess who."

"Moriarty." Sherlock murmured.

"Correct." Moran grinned. "He'd whisper a name in my ear, and I'd dispatch my little helpers to go and get rid of them. Johnny here had been all too happy to do as I said."

"But he didn't actually kill anyone." Sherlock confirmed.

"No, he didn't. I'll be honest; he's brighter than he looks. I had no reason to think that anything was amiss. I thought he was going to remain loyal to me until the end."

"But he didn't. He left when you gave him my name."

"Yeah. And before you ask, I don't know why Jim wanted you killed back then. He never gave any reasons."

"You just obeyed him like a little lapdog." Sherlock muttered.

Moran chuckled humourlessly. "Remind you of anyone?" he said, his gaze lingering on John. Sherlock held the doctor closer, causing Moran to laugh again. Greg shifted uncomfortably, the blade of the knife pressing down into his neck.

"You shot him, when he left, didn't you?"

"Yes, I knew I couldn't just let him go, he knew too much."

"But he survived." Sherlock said.

Moran nodded. "Obviously, and the two of you continued to live right under my nose. You can imagine my surprise when Jim had me kidnap your pet and take him to a swimming pool, only to have you arrive hours later."

"Why didn't you do anything then?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Moran shrugged. "Because I knew Jim had a vivid imagination, and I wanted to see what would happen when he set it on the two of you. And if all else failed, I would kill you both later on anyway, hence this scenario. It's very poetic, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, there's the irony of a similar situation happening almost exactly four years ago, only with reversed positions. The doctor commits suicide, and you're left to grieve."

"But John hasn't committed suicide." the detective argued.

"And neither did you." Moran countered in a calm tone. "But the other irony is that Johnny will die like he arranged each of his victims to; a cut to the left wrist and the influence of a sedative."

"Sedative?" Sherlock said sharply.

"Mmm, yes. A sedative for the others, that is. The one that your pet has been given is more like poison."

Sherlock's face paled and his eyes widened. He risked a glance down at John, and he noted the pale complexity, the shallow breathing, not just because of blood loss.

"Where's the antidote?" he asked, trying to contain his panic and anger.

"You really think I'm going to tell you?" Moran replied, eyebrows raised as he adjusted the grip on his knife.

"I can make you tell me." Sherlock growled, his fingers slowly sliding to check John's pulse. Too slow. Far, _far _too slow.

The Colonel smiled. "Another similarity you've created, Sherlock." he said. At the detective's questioning look, he elaborated. "Jim killed himself to trap you, and I could just as easily kill myself too. Oh yes, this really _is _poetic." He grinned maliciously.

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I? I think you underestimate me, Sherly." he mocked.

"I thought you wanted to kill me?"

"Plans change." Moran answered. "Maybe it would be better if you _burned_, instead."

Sherlock fought to keep his temper under control, and he glanced across at Lestrade, who was trying to crane his neck away from the knife which had already drawn a line of blood. This had to end now.

Moran was still mulling over the situation. "You played your part wonderfully, Sherlock, I have to say." he murmured. "The oblivious friend, trying to work out what was happening but remaining left out, much like Johnny was all those years ago. Everyone stayed in character; even your big brother had a few monologues to give again. At the risk of sounding cliché, history really does rewrite itself."

"No," a weak voice said, "Nobody was cast as a soldier last time."

There was a loud gunshot, and Moran gasped. The knife fell to the floor, and Greg wrenched himself away, turning and watching as the sniper fell to the ground. He was dead before he hit the floor, and a round bullet hole decorated his forehead.

Lestrade and Sherlock looked across to the kitchen, where Nicholas Harper was leaning heavily against the dining room table, a smoking gun in his hand. The gun was dropped as his legs gave out moments later, and Greg rushed forward, catching the soldier and lowering him gently to the ground.

"We thought you were dead." Greg muttered, pressing his hands against Nick's chest.

Nick laughed weakly. "Not long now." he muttered, his eyes closing briefly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you, Nick. I think you saved our lives." he said.

The soldier rolled his head to look across at Sherlock. "S'okay." he answered. His gaze fell upon John, and he watched him sadly. His eyes suddenly widened, and he hastened to sit up, a coughing fit falling upon him as he moved. Greg placed a hand on his shoulder, but he batted it away.

"The antidote." he said urgently, between coughs. "S'in my pocket..."

Shocked, Lestrade rummaged through the soldier's trouser pockets until he pulled out a small vial, filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. Greg threw it to Sherlock, who caught it easily.

Nick slumped against the DI, who once again laid him down. "Moran mentioned the poison... I picked up the antidote... just in case."

Greg smiled. "You're a hero, Nick. You might just have given John a chance."

Nick shook his head solemnly. "No, I'm no hero." he whispered. "You should... consider John, though..."

"We already do." Sherlock muttered as he unscrewed the small lid and held the vial to John's lips.

"Drink this, John, it's okay." the detective murmured, gently pouring the liquid into John's mouth. He placed a hand over John's lips and held his nose as the older man began to cough, and he could do nothing but will the doctor to swallow the antidote.

"John, come on, swallow it." Eventually, Sherlock saw his Adam's apple bob, and he smiled in relief.

"Good man." he said, resting the doctor's head against his chest. He could finally hear sirens in the distance, and he rubbed John's arm subconsciously.

Nick looked up at Lestrade, and beckoned for him to come closer. The DI bent his head and Nick whispered in his ear. Sherlock looked up briefly to see Lestrade pale, but he knew whatever it was the soldier was saying, Lestrade would tell him later. Instead, he looked back down at John, unable to prevent himself from placing a hand over the doctor's chest, feeling his weak heartbeat and also the rise and fall of his lungs. Nothing had improved, but then again nothing had worsened.

Nick finished speaking, and turned to watch Sherlock through half-lidded eyes, smiling softly. "Take care... of him." he whispered, nodding at John. "Can see... he needs you."

Sherlock nodded slightly, though his gaze never left John. With one final breath, Nick closed his eyes fully and his head turned limply to the side, the smile remaining on his face. Lestrade pressed two fingers against Nick's neck, and bowed his head.

"He's gone, now." he muttered, and Sherlock nodded again, just as paramedics trampled up the stairs and burst into the room, oblivious to the solemn scene that had occurred seconds ago.


	11. Chapter 11

Everything seemed to happen at once when the paramedics arrived.

Two of the medics rushed over to where Sherlock was kneeling with John, and they quickly began assessing the unconscious doctor; examining the wound on his wrist and applying gauze to it, and also taking a look at the gash on the back of John's head where Moran had knocked him out earlier. Neither of the paramedics tried to take John from Sherlock; they both seemed to sense that things would go badly if they tried, so they allowed the detective to keep his arms around the army doctor.

As the medics were doing their job, Sherlock looked over their heads to see DI Lestrade standing near Nick's prone form. He was talking to another paramedic, gesturing to Nick, Moran and John as he spoke. When the paramedic pointed at the slice on his neck, Greg covered it with his hand and shook his head, nodding over to where John was instead. Sherlock noticed the medic gesture to Moran, and when Greg answered, it was with a stern expression and he barely cast a glance over to the dead sniper.

Sherlock watched the two paramedics by him as they took John's pulse, and he figured now was the time to elaborate on John's condition.

"He's been poisoned, too." Sherlock said quietly.

The female paramedic looked up at him sharply. "What? What was he given?"

"I'm not sure, but he's had an antidote administered."

"What was the antidote?" she asked, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a penlight, opening John's eyes and shining the light in them.

"I – er – don't know." the detective admitted. The paramedic sighed, and began conferring with her colleague. They were speaking quietly, and the only words Sherlock caught were "stretcher", "blood loss", and the phrase which really shook the detective: "coma is likely".

Sherlock could hear sirens outside as Greg's reinforcements arrived, and the staircase shook as half a dozen officers entered the room. Lights from outside were flashing against the walls as more police cars and another ambulance drew up, and then more paramedics came in, bearing a stretcher between them.

Everyone was shouting over each other; the police officers as they tried to talk to Greg, to ask for a statement and also to await instructions on what to do next. Some of the constables were standing over Moran, and hollering down the stairs for whoever was down there to bring up two body bags. Greg was still next to Nick, but now he was crouched by the soldier and almost concealing him from the room. It was clear that the DI didn't want Nick to be as exposed as Moran, who was sprawled in the middle of the room with people stepping over him every now and then.

As if the volume of the numerous police officers wasn't loud enough, the paramedics used firm voices as they tried to talk to Sherlock, to tell him to let John go. There were now five of them crowding around the detective, all of them wanting to be heard, but all Sherlock could hear was a loud babble as the voices got louder. Hands were grasping John's arm, tugging him away, but Sherlock only held him closer, tightening his grip on the doctor in an attempt to shield him. His mind seemed to forget the fact that these people were here to help; the shouting was beginning to overwhelm him, and he scrunched his eyes close, choosing to focus on the weight of John in his arms.

The paramedics somehow worked out – stupidly, in the detective's opinion – that because Sherlock had his eyes closed, he would loosen his grip on John. They chose that moment to keep the detective where he was by placing their hands on his chest as others moved forward and attempted to all but drag John away. Sherlock's eyes flew open, and his icy eyes blazed as he knocked the paramedics' hands away and wound an arm around John's waist, pulling him back so that the doctor was sat in front of him, slumped against his chest with his head resting against the crook of Sherlock's neck. The younger man wrapped both his arms around John, and shuffled backwards towards the wall, but the paramedics crept closer, now joined by a few officers who were eager to draw a statement out of Sherlock.

Greg finally saw what was going on, and he shook his head at the paramedics' lack of tact. At the minute, Sherlock looked like a cornered animal; watching everyone with wide, cautious eyes and clutching John to him, obviously unwilling to let go any time soon. Greg moved forward, sliding past officers to reach Sherlock.

"Alright, everyone, back off!" he shouted over everybody's nattering, standing protectively in front of the detective. "Come on, anyone who doesn't need to be here waits downstairs!"

A few officers milled out of the room, but none of the paramedics moved. Other officers stayed where they were, crouched near Moran and Nick or by those who were crowding Sherlock. Greg sighed.

"Scotland Yarders!" he yelled. "Downstairs now!" Obligingly, the rest of the police officers trotted down the stairs. That now left five paramedics.

"Alright, you lot," Greg pointed to the medics. "It would be best if you waited outside." They opened their mouths to argue, but the DI beat them to it. "Please, just do it, otherwise you're never going to get Dr. Watson out of here." Reluctantly, the paramedics stood up and left.

Greg crouched down opposite Sherlock and waited until the medics had gone.

"Sherlock," he said gently. "Please, you have to let them get John to the ambulance. He's losing blood, and he needs help fast."

Sherlock's steel eyes flitted across to meet Greg's soft ones, silently telling him he was listening.

"He might need a blood transfusion, and that can't happen unless he reaches the hospital. You want to help him, don't you?"

The detective nodded minutely, and his eyes fell to rest upon John's sandy hair as his grip loosened slightly.

"Then come on, because we also need to make sure the antidote has worked. We don't know for sure whether it was administered in time, and it's imperative we know. His heart is still beating, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sherlock whispered, his hand resting over John's chest, and Greg thought it likely the detective was counting each beat.

"Which means there is still time. Please, Sherlock, let the paramedics help him."

"But he won't wake up."

It was then that Greg felt his heart break in two as he watched Sherlock practically hug John, holding him tight and hesitant to release him. The DI wanted nothing more than to strangle Moran, and he only wished that the sniper had suffered when he'd died. He wished he had suffered as much as Sherlock was suffering now.

"I know, Sherlock, and that's all the more reason to give him over to the medics. They can save him."

Finally, Sherlock nodded, and he shifted slightly to show Greg he was ready to let the doctor go. Time seemed to slow down as Greg knew that John needed to get out of here immediately and he was finally presented with the opportunity to do so.

He moved forward and gently lifted John into his arms, standing up slowly and ensuring John wasn't going to slip any time soon. The doctor's head hung back limply, and his left arm dangled down as Greg hurried across the room and carefully made his way down the stairs.

The officers who had been waiting in the hallway stopped talking when they saw their boss rushing downstairs with John, and they all moved aside as Lestrade dashed outside. There, everyone else who had been waiting – officers and paramedics alike – made way for him as two paramedics came to meet them with the stretcher.

Gently, he laid John down, and the paramedics mercilessly pushed him aside; now that the patient was in their hands, people did as _they _said. Greg backed off willingly, and turned just as another medic pressed a wad of gauze against his neck.

"Hold it there." the man commanded, and Greg obeyed.

"The wound shouldn't need stitches, so you should be okay just to keep that pressed against it until the bleeding stops, alright?"

The DI nodded, then cleared his throat. "Are you going to be taking away the other bodies?" he asked.

"Yeah, there are people up there moving them now. Nicholas Harper and – sorry, I've forgotten his name."

"Sebastian Moran. Will you... be careful, with Nick I mean?" Greg asked tentatively.

The paramedic nodded understandingly. "Of course, we'll be gentle with both." he said, moving back towards the flat, but Greg stopped him, placing a hand on the man's arm.

"If you were to... drop... Moran, that would be fine." he said quietly, watching the medic carefully.

The man smiled slightly. "Yes sir." he answered, walking off into the flat. Greg spoke to a few more officers, giving details and instructions, and then he watched as the ambulance with John in it sped off, sirens blaring. He, too, then moved into the flat, stepping aside to allow the two stretchers with a body bag on each to come past down the hallway.

Greg made his way up the stairs, stepping on each step louder than he would usually to alert Sherlock to the fact that he was coming, just in case the detective needed time to compose himself or something.

Greg had been prepared to be faced with a cold, stony Sherlock, as per usual, but the younger man hadn't moved from his position on the floor. He was still sat against the wall, his legs outstretched. He looked defeated, and Greg guessed he probably hadn't even heard the DI enter. Sherlock was gazing at the floor, half his face hidden by his dark curls, and his hands rested limply between his legs.

"Sherlock..." Greg muttered. The detective jumped and his head snapped up, glaring at the DI.

"Where's John?" he croaked. Greg watched him sympathetically.

"They've taken him to hospital, mate. Did you want to go and see him? You might have to wait a bit, but afterwards we can–"

"What did Nick say to you?" Sherlock interrupted, his voice firm and his icy eyes watching him closely.

"Sorry?"

"When I was with John, Nick whispered something in your ear just before he died. What did he say?"

"Sherlock, do you really want to talk about this now–?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know." Sherlock said, getting to his feet.

Greg sighed. "Moran had Nick's daughter, Rachel. Nick told me that he was forced to do things Moran told him to do on the promise that no harm would come to his daughter."

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor, to the spot where Moran had been before. "We'll have to find her then, won't we?" he murmured. Suddenly he had snapped back into detective mode, talking quickly as his eyes darted about the room. "We need to get to Scotland Yard and find Moran's phone. It would have been on him today, so I'm assuming it's being held as evidence." He turned to the door, but Lestrade placed a hand on his arm, halting him.

"Sherlock, just hold on a second. What about John?" he asked quietly. Sherlock's eyes met him, silently warning him to let go. Greg didn't oblige. "A minute ago you were refusing to let anyone touch him, and now you're acting as if nothing's happened."

"What do you want me to say, Inspector?" Sherlock replied coldly.

Greg sighed. "I don't know, it's just... you scared me, when you were holding onto John." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and the DI continued. "I'd never seen you that... frightened before, and it worries me that you can cast all that aside so easily and focus on something else."

"It's not easy." the detective muttered, and Greg only just caught what he was saying. "But I've had practice. I can't do anything else for John at the moment, and as much as I hate that, I'll just have to focus on something else. And I suppose that finding the little girl is important, yes?"

Lestrade nodded, not knowing what else to say.

"Then let's go." Sherlock led the way down the stairs and over to Lestrade's car, where the DI drove them both to Scotland Yard. The officers who had arrived at John's army flat earlier had all returned, and Greg wondered if the ambulance that had John had arrived at St. Bart's yet, delivering John to the people who could save his life.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice behind him made him pause in the doorway of the building, and he turned to see the detective still stood beside his car, looking down at the pavement.

"Sherlock?" he prompted, taking a small step forward.

The younger man cleared his throat before speaking. "I – erm – I wanted to... thank you. For before, when you... you know... with John and everything." Sherlock had kept his gaze planted firmly on the ground while he talked, and he shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.

"It's fine, Sherlock." Greg smiled softly. "And to be fair, the paramedics weren't exactly being considerate."

Sherlock nodded both in appreciation and agreement, and as he brushed past Greg, the DI thought he heard him mutter, "they were moronic imbeciles." Lestrade couldn't help but laugh as he followed Sherlock inside, grateful for the comic relief in light of the situation they were in.


	12. Chapter 12

"This is all that was on him at the time." DI Lestrade said as he walked back into his office, brandishing a small evidence bag containing a mobile phone and a metal cigarette lighter. Sherlock was perched in the DI's chair and snatched the bag from Greg instantly only to empty the two objects onto the desk. Sherlock scooped up the phone and leant back in the chair, fingers typing furiously as he tried to guess the password.

"What are you looking for, exactly?" Greg asked, leaning against the edge of the desk and fiddling with the cigarette lighter.

"Texts. Anything that tells us who Moran has been coinciding with, or where Nick's daughter – Rachel, is it? – yes, where she is."

"Do you really think he'll be that obvious?" Greg asked uncertainly.

Sherlock sighed. "No, but there isn't much else to go on at the moment." he answered shortly.

The next few minutes passed in silence as Sherlock continued to thumb through the colonel's phone, and Lestrade was left to worry about John. Well, if Sherlock wasn't going to do it, it was left to him, wasn't it? Though, he thought, it was probably unfair to accuse Sherlock of not worrying. He didn't think the memory of Sherlock clutching John's limp body would ever leave him, and he could only begin to imagine what scene was engraved in Sherlock's mind.

Greg could hear Sherlock huffing in frustration behind him, and he did his best not to ask what was on his mind; it would only serve to annoy the detective, and that was the last thing the two of them needed.

His gaze fell upon the cigarette lighter in his hands. It was metal, old fashioned. One that was usually given as a gift. On one side of the lighter, though, Greg noticed an engraving. Elegant letters entwined with each other, and the DI squinted to read what was written.

"There must be something..." Sherlock muttered behind him, the constant tapping of the keys following his sentence.

"Sherlock..." Greg murmured, barely able to believe what he was reading.

"What is it?" the detective asked, his eyes never leaving the phone.

"This cigarette lighter..."

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted, though Greg could hear his exasperation, and he guessed the younger man didn't really care. He would in a second.

"It – uh – it belonged to Moriarty." he said.

"_What_?" Sherlock's head snapped up, and he rushed around the desk to take the lighter from Greg. He held it up to the light to read the engraving he'd spotted.

_ Mr. Moriarty,_

_ We will be eternally grateful for what you've done for us. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us._

_ Daniel Betrag._

"Daniel Betrag, why is that name familiar?" Greg asked, racking his memory.

Sherlock's eyes darted about the office, though it was obvious he wasn't taking in any details of the room. Finally, his gaze landed upon the DI, and he smirked.

"He owns the pub where Ryan Panes used to visit. The same pub you pulled me out of when I was attacked. Let's go." He was already walking towards the door before Greg even had a chance to process what the detective said, or what he was implying. When the words eventually sunk in, he looked sharply at Sherlock, who had just brushed past one of the sergeants' desks.

"Sherlock, wait!" he called. "We don't have a warrant!"

The detective stopped and spun back around to face Greg, a frown decorating his features. "What gave you the idea we were going to order a search of their pub?" he asked.

"But if Rachel's there–" he began, but Sherlock cut him off, shaking his head.

"I can find her whilst you talk to Mr. Betrag. We don't need an army of officers to storm the building. Ask him about Moriarty, while you're there." Sherlock turned and continued towards the door.

"No, Sherlock–" But the detective was gone, trotting downstairs, leaving Lestrade stranded in the large office. With a sigh and also a small smile he couldn't prevent, now that the Sherlock he was comfortable working with had returned, he moved to follow him.

"Donovan, with us!" he shouted, before pushing open the doors and hurrying down the long staircase.

Lestrade pulled up outside Daniel Betrag's pub fifteen minutes later. The three of them climbed out and made their way over, but Sherlock pulled the DI aside.

"You might not want to show you ID badge." he said quietly.

"What? Why not?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

"Because Betrag is under the impression that Nick is you." At Greg's stunned expression, he elaborated. "When Nick and I were investigating the other day, I gave Nick your ID, to show to Mr. Betrag."

Greg wanted to shout at Sherlock, but he knew the detective wouldn't listen to a word he said, so he merely sighed and turned to Donovan, who was waiting by the door.

"You're taking the lead on this, Sally." he said.

"I am?" Donavan asked with raised eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Wait, what do I say to Mr. Betrag? Am I going to tell him we know he has Rachel Harper?"

Greg looked across to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"No, tell him we're investigating... a robbery in the area, and we wanted to talk." Sally nodded, but he hadn't finished. "We don't say anything about Rachel until Sherlock has either found her, or is certain she's not there, understood?"

Donovan nodded again, and the three of them made their way into the pub. It wasn't too busy; there were a few families sitting at tables, and men and women alike sitting alone at the bar. Sherlock couldn't help but glance over to the corner table, and he noted with some relief that there were no burly men anywhere to be seen.

Sherlock and Lestrade loitered behind Donovan as they waited for either Mr. Betrag or his wife to arrive, and Greg took this as his chance to ask Sherlock something.

"Sherlock, why are you so eager to find Rachel?" he asked quietly, ensuring Donovan couldn't hear them, now that she was talking to Mrs. Betrag, a petit blonde woman who looked friendly enough. Oh, how appearances could be deceiving.

Sherlock glanced across at him with a frown. "I'm always eager." he argued.

"Yeah, but usually for all the wrong reasons. This time though, it's like you genuinely want to find her."

The detective shifted slightly, avoiding eye contact with the DI. "She's John's goddaughter." was all he said, but it was enough to make Greg understand.

"Ah." he replied. "I didn't know he had a goddaughter." he added.

Sherlock shrugged. "Nor did I, not until Nick arrived last week."

"I see." Lestrade answered.

"I know John would be dedicated if, for some reason, something happened to Mycroft." Sherlock continued, unaware that Greg had his answer, and didn't need to know anymore. "So it's only fair that I help to find a member of his family, isn't it?" At the last statement Sherlock almost seemed unsure, and Greg smiled softly.

"Yes, it is." he answered, and Sherlock nodded, as if he was congratulating himself on getting it right.

Donovan turned back to them and motioned them towards the bar, where Mrs. Betrag had lifted part of the counter and was waiting for them to come in. Greg smiled somewhat coldly as he passed, and Sherlock barely looked at her.

They were led into a small living room, where Mr. Betrag was reading a newspaper. When they entered, he put the paper down and stood up to greet them. His friendly smile froze, though, when he saw Sherlock. The detective shook his hand and attempted a gentle smile, though he feared it came out as more of a grimace.

"While we're here, Mr. Betrag," he said. "I wanted to apologise for the fight I caused the other day. It was unfair on you and your customers, and it should have continued outside."

Daniel Betrag nodded, though he avoided meeting Sherlock's eyes. "It's fine." he said quickly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Actually, do you mind if I use the bathroom?" he asked.

Mr. Betrag smiled. "Of course." he said. "It's just down the corridor."

"Thank you." Avoiding Lestrade's surprised stare, he wandered down the corridor, and when he turned back to check no one was watching, he darted into the kitchen, which was halfway down the corridor.

The kitchen itself was quite spacious, but it was cosy and old-fashioned. Sherlock moved about the room until he came upon the pantry, and he wasted no time in opening it and rummaging through the various products. With a triumphant smile, he pulled out a bag of ready-salted crisps, and quickly stuffed it in his coat pocket.

Closing the door behind him, Sherlock walked out of the kitchen and back down the corridor. A number of doors littered the hallway, and he opened each one, peering into the bedroom, bathroom or spare room, but still unsatisfied.

As he walked, he couldn't help but ponder over Lestrade's earlier question. He had surprised himself at how keen he was to find little Rachel, but he knew that John would be grateful, and at this moment he wanted nothing more than to go to St. Bart's and tell his friend what he was doing, but at the same time he didn't want to go to the hospital empty-handed, and only tell John he was_ finding_ Rachel, not that he had _found_ her. This was what fuelled him, and he wouldn't see John until he had Rachel, as much as it pained him.

He eventually came upon a door that was locked, and he rattled the handle a few times, just to check. Sherlock knocked on it, and pressed his ear against the door to check for any noises, but there was nothing. Searching through his pockets, he pulled out a paperclip and slid it into the lock.

After a few seconds, there was a satisfying _click_, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow staircase. _Well, if there was ever a place to store a child, the basement was it._

Checking once more that no one was watching, he quietly made his way down the stairs, cautious not to alert anyone as to what he was doing. At the bottom was a large, bare, concrete room, with no windows and only an uncovered light bulb to provide the light. And there, in the corner, sat Rachel Harper, clutching her knees to her chest and cowering away from Sherlock. She had long blonde hair, which Sherlock was sure would have hung in tight ringlets once upon a time, but now it was scraggly and dirty, hanging loosely over the girl's shoulders. She was wearing a white dress, which was also dirty and torn in some places, where she had cut it on the stones in the room.

Sherlock slowly moved forward, and then crouched down opposite her. Rachel watched him with wide, brown eyes, hiding her face behind her hair and glancing at him shyly.

"It's alright," he said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe now."

Rachel seemed unconvinced, and she shifted, clearly wanting to be left alone.

Sherlock reached into his pocket, but he froze as he drew out the packet of crisps when Rachel flinched, obviously expecting something worse.

"Don't worry." he murmured. Sherlock opened the packet of crisps, then popped one into his mouth, crunching loudly. He offered the packet to Rachel.

"Want one?" he asked. "The salt will be good for you."

After a while, Rachel shuffled forward and her small hand reached into the packet and drew out a crisp. She nibbled a few times, before placing the entire thing in her mouth. Sherlock smiled softly.

"My name's Sherlock." he said. "You're Rachel?"

The girl nodded, reaching for another crisp. Sherlock gave the packet to her, and she clung to it greedily.

"I'm going to get you out of here, alright? Then we'll take you home to your mum."

Rachel's eyes lit up, and without warning she put the crisps down and wrapped her small arms around Sherlock's neck. The detective tensed in surprise, before he reached over and put the crisps in his pocket, then stood up, lifting Rachel and resting her on his hip. She kept her arms around his neck, and also rested her head on his shoulder, a small sigh escaping her lips.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly called Lestrade. The DI answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock? What is it? Have you got her?"

"Yes, I've got her." he answered.

He heard Lestrade breathe a sigh of relief. "Great. OK, we'll take these two to the station. Stay there until I've gotten them out the way, then I'll come and get you." Greg hung up, and Sherlock dropped his phone back in his coat. He looked down at Rachel, who was blinking languidly and snuggling her face into Sherlock's neck. He squirmed uncomfortably, and she let out a small giggle when his dark curls brushed against her face. Sherlock smiled despite himself, and without realising, began to sway from side to side, lulling the girl to sleep.

Footsteps sounded minutes later, and Lestrade appeared in the doorway.

"Is she unconscious?" he asked, nodding at Rachel. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, she's merely sleeping." he answered.

Greg nodded. "Come on, then. Donovan's taken the Betrags to the Yard, and I've got a cab waiting to take us to St. Bart's." The DI led Sherlock back through the pub, and before long they were outside next to the cab. Greg noticed Sherlock's hesitancy regarding Rachel, and he stepped forward and transferred the girl to himself, sliding into the taxi and sitting her on his lap. Sherlock practically radiated relief as he got into the cab beside Greg, nodding once then facing forward.

They arrived at the hospital after twenty-five minutes, and before either of them got out, Greg placed a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Go see John." he said. "I've got Rachel, I can find a doctor. You go on ahead."

"Thank you, Lestrade." the detective said as he bounded out the taxi and rushed into the hospital. He soon received directions to John's room, and he all but ran down the numerous corridors, anxious and also scared of what he might find.

Finally, he reached the room John was in, and he slowed his pace. He rested one of his hands on the door, and gently pushed it open, astonished at what he saw.

John was out of bed and dressed, and currently bending down to tie his shoelaces. A stark white bandage was wrapped around his left wrist, and he still looked quite pale, but overall he seemed healthy.

Upon hearing the door open, John glanced up, and when he saw Sherlock, his face split into a large smile. He straightened up, still grinning.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse. "I thought you were never going to show up, it's been boring as hell here. Oh, and would you please tell Mycroft that I don't need bodyguards outside my room; I can – Sherlock? What's wrong?"

He had been interrupted when the detective had silently swept forward and wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist, burying his head in the crook of the doctor's neck. John stood, dumbfounded for a second or two, before he hesitantly slid his arms around Sherlock's neck, patting him on the back.

"You alright?" he asked gently, trying to get a look at Sherlock's face, which was still hidden. He heard Sherlock huff a laugh.

"M'fine." he muttered, voice muffled by John's shirt. "I was worried – I mean, I thought you..." He was unable to get his sentences straight, and John quickly shushed him, rubbing his back.

"It's alright, I'm fine. We're fine. I should thank you, really, for getting the antidote to me in time." Sherlock remained silent, keeping his head down, and the army doctor continued. "The doctors said that had you waited any longer to administer it, I probably wouldn't be here having my ribs cracked by you."

Sherlock breathed another laugh, before he loosened his grip, drawing back and avoiding eye contact with John. The doctor squeezed his arm, trying to get his attention.

"Hey," he said softly. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I promise it won't happen again." He finished with a small smile.

"Good." Sherlock replied, nodding to himself and stepping back slightly. "Make sure it doesn't."


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

Silence reigned throughout Baker Street as, in the distance, Big Ben struck three in the morning. Silence was, of course, to be expected, though perhaps not in Sherlock's case. And yet, the two tenants were fast asleep, each in their own beds. The faint ticking of the clock in the living room sounded loudly, and the minutes passed slowly, in silence. The silence didn't last for very long, however.

John turned in his bed as a muffled sound briefly brought him out of his slumber.

"John!"

His eyes opened slowly, and he gazed blearily around the room. He allowed time for his vision to become accustomed to the darkness, but when nothing struck him as unordinary, he began to drift off again, his eyes sliding closed.

_ "_JOHN!"

This time, John's eyes snapped open, hearing Sherlock all but scream his name, and he threw back the covers to scramble out of his bed. He ran down the stairs and rushed along the hallway until he was outside Sherlock's bedroom door.

Without knocking, John shoved open the door and burst inside, ready to face whatever had caused Sherlock to shout out. He paused in his steps, though, when he wasn't greeted by any knife-wielding strangers. He looked across to the detective's bed, and suddenly understood why Sherlock had been calling for him when he saw the younger man thrashing about under the covers in the middle of the bed, the sheets wrapped around his waist as Sherlock kicked his legs in an unconscious attempt to free himself.

"Sherlock, hey, it's okay." John walked forward and gently held the detective's shoulder. "It's a dream, just a dream." Sherlock continued to throw his head from side to side, mumbling John's name, though the thrashing had calmed somewhat. One of his arms came up to swipe at John's hand, the one holding his shoulder. The doctor caught it and held the detective's hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly.

"Sherlock, wake up, come on." John knelt on the bed and deflected the other arm that had come to free the one caught in John's grip. The doctor was now grappling with an unconscious Sherlock, holding both his hands to prevent any punches being thrown, and also simultaneously trying to wake his friend.

"Sherlock, it's only a dream, wake up!" He slid his right knee forward and pressed it into Sherlock's abdomen, increasing the pressure to try and rouse the detective.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly flew open, and he bolted upright, causing John to jump out of his skin and nearly fall off the bed, if it wasn't for the hold he was maintaining on Sherlock's hands. The younger man sat panting in the dark, heaving in deep breaths as his eyes flew about the room until they landed on John, who was now sat cross-legged opposite him, having regained his balance.

"J-John?" he croaked, frowning. The doctor let go of Sherlock's hands, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes, it's me." he said softly. "You were having a nightmare."

"I-I thought you... In my dream, you were–"

"It's alright." John shushed, rubbing Sherlock's arm. "I'm alright, we're both fine. It was just a dream."

Sherlock nodded, then frowned. "It happened a week ago," he said. "Why am I still dreaming about it?" His voice was barely a whisper, but John still caught it. The doctor huffed a laugh, and then moved to sit next to Sherlock, leaning against the headboard and stretching his legs out. Sherlock watched him, but didn't say anything.

"I dreamt about you jumping for three years, Sherlock." he said quietly, looking across to the detective, who was now staring straight ahead and trying to control his breathing. "Not every night, but most of the time for definite. It will go away eventually, don't worry."

Sherlock nodded again, sliding upwards to sit upright, and he switched on one of the bedside lamps, a soft circle of light illuminating the bed area. The two lapsed into silence, each pondering over their own demons.

"I never really thanked you properly." John said, glancing at his friend. "For finding Rachel and saving her."

Sherlock shrugged. "You'd do the same, if it was someone close to me."

"Nevertheless, I'm very grateful. And Ellen is, too. I thought she'd never let go of you when we arrived."

The detective smirked, but didn't reply. After a few minutes of no talking, he looked over to John. "You were quiet at the funeral today." he murmured.

"I was hardly going to start cracking jokes, was I?" John answered, somewhat bitterly as he absent-mindedly scratched at the scar on his left wrist.

Sherlock said nothing, and looked away. He heard John sigh next to him.

"Sorry, that came out harsher than I meant." the doctor said. "I was just... frustrated, I guess. That Nick didn't get to see Rachel again, that I didn't save him."

"You can't save everyone." Sherlock said quietly.

John sighed again. "I know, but it was still partly my fault, after all."

_ Depends on how you look at it_, Sherlock mused. "So Nick actually thought I had died, before Reichenbach, that is?" he asked, to try and distract John.

The doctor nodded. "It's like Mycroft told you; no one had any reason to suspect I was helping my victims, so their 'deaths' weren't looked into, yours included."

"But he still knew about Reichenbach?"

"Yeah. I was upset, as you can imagine, and Nick had always been the person I'd gone to when I wanted to talk, and vice versa. So I phoned him, and told him my best friend had killed himself."

"Though you didn't say it was me." Sherlock asked softly.

"No, I still had enough common sense to know that I shouldn't tell him you had actually been alive beforehand. I couldn't risk it, and Mycroft would've had my head, anyhow." he added.

"And when Mycroft visited you, the day he gave me Nick's case file, you told me that he asked you about Nick. What did he actually say?"

"He wanted to know why Nick was in our flat, and when I explained to him that he was staying with us for a week or so, he tried his best to persuade me to change my mind."

"By...?" Sherlock prompted.

John chuckled. "By threatening my job, mainly. I told him – in kinder words – to piss off."

Sherlock smirked, imagining the face Mycroft would've pulled once John had spoken to him.

"I was deliberately vague when I spoke to you about Mycroft's visit." John continued. "I was still annoyed with you, and I was genuinely keen to know what he'd said to you about Nick. Also, I needed you to believe that no one besides me knew Nick, that Mycroft had only read his file and hadn't met him beforehand."

"Well, my brother played his part well." Sherlock sniffed, much to John's amusement.

"He didn't give anything away?"

Sherlock considered for a few moments. "He hinted that Nick was someone to be wary of, but he didn't elaborate. He left the file for me to read at my own expense, I imagine. And I assume it was Nick who took the file?"

John nodded. "Yeah, he told me everything. At first, I thought he'd been working _with _Moran, but, well, then he told me about Rachel, and it soon became clear what was going on."

Once again, silence reigned throughout the room, as the two sat comfortably in each other's company.

"Can I ask you something?" John asked, somewhat hesitantly. Sherlock nodded.

"If I really had killed those people, and I confessed and everything that happened last week still happened but with the difference of me being an actual killer, would you have saved me?"

"Of course I would." Sherlock answered immediately, looking across at John and realising that the doctor had probably been mulling over that question for a while, worrying about how his friend would respond. "Though I cannot be sure whether I would have told Lestrade the truth." he added quietly.

John nodded in understanding. "I wouldn't have blamed you, if you had gone to him." he said. "It's just... I don't know, I was only wondering because you hesitated when I asked you to run with me–"

Sherlock shook his head. "I wasn't hesitating. I was working out which way Lestrade and his men were coming from, so that we could go the other way. You took it the wrong way, though, which I know is perfectly reasonable. I can imagine how it must have looked from your point of view. I would have gone with you, though."

John smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling upwards. "Thank you." he said softly, and Sherlock surmised he wasn't just thanking him for the last sentence.

"What about me?" the detective suddenly said. "If I had confessed to killing someone, would you be surprised?"

John pursed his lips thoughtfully. "When I first met you," he began. "I probably wouldn't have been that surprised, after finding all those body parts in the fridge and what have you. Horrified, yes, but not surprised." Sherlock smiled, and waited for John to continue.

"But now... I think I would be surprised. Now that I've known you for a few years, and I can see that on the inside you're just a pussycat..." At Sherlock's sharp look, he burst into laughter, and the detective fought very hard against the smile that was threatening to rise to the surface.

"Alright, maybe not a cat." John said once his laughter had died down. "But it would surprise me, yes. You're a rubbish sociopath, after all."

Sherlock really did smile then, and John soon mirrored him, though John was still thinking about the thought of Sherlock being a cat.

"Stop it." Sherlock said. John had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, although the grin remained.

"Actually, I've been meaning to ask you," John said eventually. "Why did Daniel Betrag and his wife give Moriarty a cigarette case? What did he do for them?"

Sherlock yawned. "It was the Betrags who had actually asked Moriarty to get rid of Ryan Panes for them." he explained. "I'm not sure what Ryan did, but Lestrade's working on that at the moment."

"So, what, Moran kept the case?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably. Sentiment, you know." He waved his hand lazily, but he refrained from telling John that when he had disappeared for three years, he'd kept a photo of the army doctor in his wallet. The photo was of the two of them, and it was the first photo that Sherlock could recall that he looked genuinely happy in. Mrs. Hudson had taken it one Christmas, and Sherlock always remembered it as one of the happiest nights of his life.

"And Moran got in contact with them, telling them they were going to hide a little girl?"

Sherlock blinked out of his reverie, and looked across at John, who seemed not to have noticed the distance in the detective's eyes when he'd gone off track. He cleared his throat.

"Something along those lines, yes." he said. "Whatever Moriarty had done for them, it was enough to have them willing to do what Moran said."

John shivered. "I'm glad you got to her before things got any worse. Having shot Nick, I doubt he would've had any more need for her."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "You're good with children." he said suddenly, glancing at John. "When they visited the other day, Rachel was obviously very happy to see you, and you seemed happy to sit and play with her for an hour or so."

John shrugged. "I could say the same about you, you know. Greg told me how you had managed to lull Rachel to sleep when you found her."

"Yes, but... she looked tired." he said half-heartedly, knowing it wasn't much of a counter-argument. John smirked.

"Have you ever considered it? Having children, I mean." Sherlock asked.

"I did, when I was in the army. I used to dream of having a wife or girlfriend waiting for me back in England, and I'd have kids who'd run up to me when I got back to the house. It's what kept me going, though I think I only envisioned that because I knew no one was waiting for me back home."

"What about now? With some of the women you've dated, you must have thought about it." Sherlock said softly.

John sighed. "Not really, no. I used to wonder, when I was on a date, whether I would ever go on to marry her, but, you know, things got in the way, and the thought of children was kinda taken out of the picture."

"What got in the way?" the detective asked.

"You, mostly." John smiled. "I thought to myself, I didn't need kids because I was already dealing with a child."

Sherlock harrumphed and slid down the bed until he was lying down, then rolled over with his back to John, though a small smile graced his features. John chuckled behind him, and Sherlock could hear him lying down too, atop the covers.

"Exhibit A." John said, prodding Sherlock in the back. The detective smiled fully this time, and turned back round to lie on his back. He looked at John, who had his ankles crossed and his hands behind his head.

"I don't regret living with you." he said, smiling at Sherlock. "I'm happy to stay and grow old with you. We could retire to the countryside when we're stiff with rheumatism. Have you ever been to Sussex?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"I used to go there on holiday when I was a kid. It's nice."

"I could raise bees." Sherlock said, out of the blue. John frowned.

"Sure, why not? Whatever floats your boat." Sherlock elbowed him in the ribs, and John chuckled again.

"I used to hope I'd die young," Sherlock admitted. "Go with a bang, taking down murderers with me."

"It's nearly happened." John muttered.

"But I think I'd like to grow old with you. It would be... preferable." the detective said. John shook his head.

"For some reason, whenever you say things like that, it sounds as though you're proposing or confessing your love." he said.

"You're the one who climbed into my bed." Sherlock retorted, eliciting another laugh from John, and this time Sherlock soon joined in.

"Onto, not into." John argued, rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock hummed, though he didn't retort. John sobered and looked across at his friend.

"Go to sleep Sherlock." he said quietly, smiling as the detective stifled a yawn.

"You too. You're just as tired as I am." Sherlock murmured, eyes already drifting shut.

"I know. I think your bed's comfier than mine." he said, bouncing on the bed slightly.

"Stop it." Sherlock muttered with a faint smile, turning towards John and pressing his face into the pillow.

"Sorry." John said quietly, carefully reaching over Sherlock to turn off the light. "Night Sherlock."

"G'night John."

Silence reigned throughout Baker Street as, in the distance, Big Ben struck four in the morning, and both tenants slept on.

END


End file.
